


Bihaldan

by wolf_shadoe



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-23 03:26:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 57,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18541324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf_shadoe/pseuds/wolf_shadoe
Summary: "No you don't, but thanks for saying it.""I do. And I'm not letting you go."Response to a challenge by OffYourBird: ‘The Two Ghosts of Wolfram and Hart’.“Spike tells Buffy to leave him in Chosen but, this time, she doesn't... and out pop two ghosts in Angel's office nineteen days later. How does Buffy being in W&H as ghost #2 affect AtS season 5? What kind of shenanigans does our ghost duo get up to? ...Angsty, fluffy, smutty (answering the question of if ghosts can touch each other!) - whatever genre you like, so long as it has a happy Spuffy end.”Probably heading into the territory of melancholic despair at some stage, be warned. But happy ending guaranteed! It's in the challenge requirements after all ;)Spoilers through AtS S5.





	1. Conviction

**Author's Note:**

> P.O.V switches keyed as: x Spike, + Buffy  
> Like it? Let me know in the comments! (Really, please please?)

 

 

 

** + **

 

“Go on then,” he said.

“No. No, you've done enough. You could still—”

“No, you've beat them back. It's for me to do the cleanup.”

A massive column of rock came crashing down behind her as Faith shouted her name a final time before fleeing up the stairs. Buffy flicked her eyes around desperately, trying to make sense of anything, work out what to react to--

“Gotta move, lamb. I think it's fair to say school's out for bloody summer.”

_ Oh for fuck's sake. We absolutely do  _ _ not _ _ have time to argue about this now.   _ “Spike!” she shouted in exasperation, throwing another glance behind her at the crumbling floors- ceilings- rocks- world.

“I mean it!” he insisted, “I gotta do this.” He held his hands out to fend her off, fingers trembling wildly with pain or fear but held resolutely all the same, his face set and determined.

And suddenly one thing made sense. 

She raised a hand and laced her fingers through his, squeezing hard to try and pull his focus to the plea in her touch. His fingers wrapped over her hand automatically, and he looked down at their clasped hands in wondering surprise before clenching his fingers tightly on hers in answer. As he did something sparked between them, an electric jolt of spirit-to-spirit contact that burnt in its intensity, then began to burn in reality as flames flared up from their joined palms to halo their hands in fire.  _ I touch the fire and it scorches me. How did you bear it for me so long?  _

His eyes moved up to hers and her breath caught at the look on his face - a look of calm self-assurance that what he's doing is right and good and worthwhile. That if he can do this thing then his life will have truly been worth something; that he'll have achieved something worth living it and giving it for. He carried his heart naked in his eyes, filled with a love that awed her with the pure clarity of it. 

_ Oh, Spike. You beautiful, wonderful man.  _

Feeling blazed through her chest; a mix of fierce pride and love and simple gratitude for everything that he is that filled her eyes with tears. 

_ Tell him. _ What had seemed like a terrifyingly certain way to lose him suddenly became the only phrase she knew how to think; and how could she shy away from voicing what her eyes must have been shouting loud and clear already? 

“I love you,” she said, and the words tasted like nectar in her mouth, trickling golden and sweet. 

“No you don't, but thanks for saying it.”

It felt like a slap in the face, and she almost returned it in that fashion. But with another shudder of the ground beneath her feet she caught on: he'd destroy himself in her eyes before he'd watch her love and lose someone again. And they were fast running out of time in this little hellmouth tableau.

As if she’d be put off so easily. She crushed his hand in hers with enough force to break human bones, and glared at him hard enough to shatter icecaps. “I  _ do _ . And I'm not letting you go.” 

“Yes you bloody well are! This whole place is going down!” 

“I'm  _ not, _ ” she hisses, digging her nails in now too. 

There was another great shuddering  _ boom _ as something gave way far below, and a look of fear-come-panic swept across his face as he tried to shake her free and failed. He swung his other hand towards her chest in a quick straight jab that she twisted to dodge without lessening her grip, continuing the turn to start dragging him towards the stairs. The flames were spreading up her arm -  _ yee gads, the pain,  _ it felt like skin must be blistering, melting on the back of her hand - but they only sharpened her resolve. He must have realised it too, and finally stopped resisting to take a step in her direction. 

There was a deafening boom-crack as stairs, ceiling and walls collapsed inwards and downwards in one unfathomable attack of rock and fire from every direction, death hurtling for them as some calm corner of her brain said,  _ Oh. We're not going to make it.  _ She only had time to half-turn back towards him before the ground vanished beneath her, but with a shout of her name he did the rest, jerking her from her feet to his chest and wrapping himself around her protectively. She clung to his hand, his waist, amulet stabbing into her cheek where she pressed her face into him, and he shouted something that might be  _ crazy loving bint _ before the world turned to fire from the inside and she'd have screamed if she could and in the split second before everything became nothing she remembered him once telling her,  _ real love burns and consumes. _

  
  
  


And un-burns in a howling vortex. The feeling of contact with him vanished, tearing sound from her throat finally in a scream of serrated horror. But she heard him screaming too, and opened her eyes to the black of his coat and put his name in her scream and the screaming stopped. 

Panting. She pulled back to see his face and twin pairs of panic-wide eyes searched each other for confirmation of existence while the complete lack of physical sensation said none of this could be real. Then same eyes narrowed in anger as they started shouting as one.

“You didn't have to do that, you drama-loving idiot.”

“I told you to run, you stubborn bitch!”

“You should have run  _ with _ me! I told you I wasn't letting you go!”

She tried to raise his hand to make the point, but hers came up to eye level alone with an odd rippling sensation. She looked back at his hand and tried to grab it, but her hand went straight through him and the floor they were sitting on with the same disturbing sensation. “What-- Oh god,” she squeaked, “you're a ghost!” She grabbed at (through) his hand, shoulder, sleeve in a mounting panic. 

His hands came up to hover above her shoulders, fingers shaking in the air around her. “Shh, shh, calm down,” he said in a quiet voice that touched closer to swelling hysteria than calm.

“ _ Buffy? _ ” said a voice behind her; a voice she knew all too well. 

She whirled around and to her feet, taking in their surroundings for the first time. They were in an ( _ office?) _ room of some kind; big desk and upmarket furnishings, weaponry on the walls, cluster of strangers eyeing them with wary interest. And… Angel.

“And  _ Spike _ ,” he hissed, taking a step forward. 

She shifted to stand in front of Spike, hands raised ready and balance shifting to her toes. “Get away from him!”

Another step from Angel, so she stepped forwards and sent her fist slamming against his face. Or, tried to - it swept straight through him with no resistance.

“Back off!” Spike shouted over her shoulder, and tried to step around her without brushing through. 

“Stop!” she said, holding an arm out to block him. “Angel's a ghost too, he probably can't touch me. Stay back.”

Angel blinked in confusion -  _ maybe he didn't know? -  _ but didn't try to get any closer at least.

“ _ Buffy? _ ” said one of the people behind him, and she flicked her eyes to what had to be some alternate-dimension version of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, and then on to the demon next to him, green-skinned but with small red horns. 

She addressed the demon. “Where the fuck are we, and what’ve you done to Spike?” 

He held his hands up in surrender. “Easy there, honey-cake. We're as baffled as you two.”

Angel edged to one side and she whirled back to him, stepping sideways to stay between him and Spike. “I said  _ back off _ , ghost-freak.”

“ _ Luv, _ ” whispered Spike brokenly in her ear, “I think  _ you're  _ the ghost.” He pointed at her leg, and she looked down in confusion to see it disappearing halfway into the side of an office chair. 

“Oh.”

  
  


** x **

 

Four heartbeats thumped in the room of seven people, and his ears were swallowed by the silence of the one missing.  _ Can we return to the screaming now, please?  _ It had, at least, filled the void. 

Her lip nudged out into a little pout, then ever-so-slightly trembled as she swept her hand back and forth through the chair.  _ Oh, don't cry… _ He reached for her chin, realised that was futile, and pulled his hand back to squat down in her line of sight instead. “I'm so sorry,” he whispered. 

“No,” she said, “I think you saved the world.” She looked at the others. “Did he? Where the hell are we? Where's my sister?”

“She’s fine. We’re in LA,” said Angel. “My office. You're supposed to be dead.”

“ _ Supposed  _ to be?!” she snapped, and the wanker finally backed up a little at her tone.

“We heard you were. Your team spent a week at the Hyperion and tried locator spells several times without success.”

“A week?” he asked. “How long have we...?”

“Must be… a little over two weeks?” - Angel looked at the others, and a couple of them nodded - “since Sunnydale fell.”

“Oh,” she said again. 

Some long-forgotten protocol in Wesley must have kicked in then, and he cleared the room of strangers and then finally of a resisting Angel, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He leaned back against a table by the wall and rested his hands to either side on it, looking carefully non-threatening and calm. “I feel compelled to offer you tea,” he said, “but I don't think that would be quite the thing today.” 

Spike snorted, and Buffy quirked a weak grin. 

“The others?” she asked. 

Wesley listed the living, the wounded, and finally the dead.  _ Anya. _

The hellmouth, he said, was threat no more. First evil vanquished. Felt like there was something he wasn't saying there, but whatever it was could wait. The bit was with most of the others at a farm a couple of hours north of here, and yes, he would call them. 

He picked something up carefully with his hankey from the floor, and held it aloft for them.

“The amulet,” Buffy growled.

“Arrived in the mail yesterday. No return address. It hit the floor, then you two came swirling out of it. We'd better take it down to the lab and see what we can work out. Yes,  _ after _ we call your sister.”

  
  


They grouped around the speakerphone as Wesley tried to explain things to Giles, until she cut in impatiently -  _ where's my sister?  _ A jumbled conversation followed as the phone was snatched by the bit, switched to speaker by someone, and then seemed to be surrounded by ten babbling voices as Dawn shrieked her name. Finally Giles must have regained possession of the handset, and the jumble of people cut to background.  _ We're on our way _ , he said, and Buffy baulked suddenly. 

_ We're bloody ghosts,  _ he said,  _ prepare her? _

_ Oh.  _ Silence.  _ We'll be there by tomorrow anyway.  _

Buffy rubbed at her arms, frowning at the blood smearing a slice in her shirt and shining in a damp trail from it down one leg of her jeans. The lack of scent and the way it just  _ sat _ there gave it the quality of nightmare, Macbethean horror of his sin in failing her. 

“Buffy, I…” He didn't know where he was trying to begin with apologising. No way to make this right. 

So he slid off his coat and held it out to her to cover her wounded form, but as she reached for it gratefully it vanished from their fingers to return to his shoulders. 

“Bugger.”

She quirked an ironic smile. “It's the thought that counts.”

  
  


Down to the lab to be poked and prodded without being poked and prodded. Not ghosts, announced Fred, but something other. Too warm for ghosts, which sounded wrong for him but made sense for his hot little slayer. Maybe he was still burning, already burning, one foot in hellfire et cetera. They huddled as close as they could without doing the disturbing rippling thing, hugging themselves without sensation, tight little smiles pinned in place like badly taxidermied butterflies.  _ It'll be ok. Somehow. Someone will do something. Somewhere in this mass of mod tech and science… Witch and watcher are coming…  _

He blinked, and the lab became a black pit with a roof made of fire. - _ Oh crap-  _ Blinked again though and the lab returned, complete with a panicked-looking Buffy hovering before him. She opened her mouth, flickered transparently, then vanished from view, only to reappear several metres away before he'd had time to do more than stare frantically at where she'd been. 

“Where did you go?” asked Fred, and he took his lead from Buffy to shake his head slowly.

“Dunno. Nowhere.”

Fred turned to Angel. “I've got everything I need for now. Maybe they should get some rest?” Between the book-fetching and computer-scanning and conference-calling they'd been there all day, Fred’s assistants clocking off a couple of hours back.

Angel's face twisted into half-repressed distaste at the options, but Wesley stepped forward again, offering to show them to rooms upstairs. Buffy nodded gratefully, and they followed him to the lift.

  
  


Upstairs Wesley opened the door to a small bedroom,  _ Spike. _ Then to a more lavishly appointed guest suite at the far end of the hall,  _ Buffy.  _

“Wanker’s orders?” he asked.

Wesley had the grace to look apologetic as he told her, “Angel's through that wall. If you need anything.” 

She frowned and turned back down the hall. “We don't need two rooms anyway.”

“Yeah, we do,” he said, and turned his back on her to stomp (silently) into his own. Then realised he couldn't close the door, let alone slam it. 

_ Spike?  _ she called, but when he didn't answer Wesley’s voice filled the gap. _ I'm no longer a watcher… and I was never yours…. If there's anything I can do, please let me know? I'll be in my office.  
Thanks, _ she whispered, and Wesley closed her door. 

He swung his foot into ( _ into _ ) one leg of the bed angrily, then looked around for something to ( _ hit? throw?) _ . Shoved his hand through one of the side walls, then took a breath and stepped through after it. Behind was another room much like the first, only with a closed door. He sunk down to sit on the end of the bed and dropped his face into his hands.  _ Fucken idiot.  _ For a moment there he'd felt, well, proud of himself, he supposed. Assured. Saving the world. Saving  _ her _ . Shoulda known better than to think he could pull it off. Christ, shoulda told her he was no champion the night before and skipped town like rationality had told him to; she’d have let brood-boy take care of it alone with no babysitter needed. But  _ oh no,  _ he had to go and glimpse his distorted reflection in her eyes and think that it could really be him. Should never have asked for her help back in the basement; girl's too damn soft-hearted for her own good and he'd taken advantage. What the bloody hell gave him the right? 

“You asshole, I've been looking for you.”

He just about jumped out of his skin -would've, maybe, if he had one- at her voice a scant foot in front of him. 

“Can we not ignore the petty Angel disputes right now? I think we've got bigger problems than how flash your room is.”

She glared down at him, and he covered his face with his hands again. 

“Spike?” she whispered from somewhere lower, wobbly and small. “I'm sorry. I- I didn't know what it would do.”

He looked up sharply to see her hovering near his knee, eyes big and wet. “Oh no, pet, don't do that. I was-” There was that word again, lunging up to choke him.  _ Pride goeth before fall. _ The tears spilt over onto her cheeks, and he tried to reach for her again before halting his hand with a huff. “You shoulda run, Buffy. Should. Go back to your room. Forget me.”

“No,” she whispered, “I love you.”

He turned his face down and away again. God, how he'd dreamed of it. Now nothing could cut so sharply as this perverted inversion of dream to nightmare. “Don't say that.” He looked through his fingers at the carpet, the hooks and loops of woven threads. “Don't love me, Buffy.”

“Yeah, well, I do. And you don't get to tell me otherwise,” she said, some of the anger returning. She moved to sit down next to him on the end of the bed; the covers remained perfectly still. She continued in her wobbly voice again, “Don't push me away, Spike. That didn’t work, remember? And I need you. I'll fix this somehow. Please don't cry,” she sniffed, blinking.

He wiped a finger under his eye, studied the wetness on it, then touched it to the blanket, where it vanished without a trace from both fabric and finger. He held his finger up to her and tried to smile. “They're not even real.”

She lifted her hand towards him, then made the same realisation he kept re-making, and dropped it to lean her head in closer instead, peering into his eyes. “Yeah,” she whispered, “they are.”

  
  


“How come,” she said, lying side by side on their backs on the bed later, “we can lie  _ on  _ the bed, but not, you know, touch it? Why aren’t we falling through?”

“Hmm. Dunno.” Is it the supposition, perhaps? They expect the bed to support them, so it does? “Maybe…” He remembered what it felt like to step through the wall, and imagined doing the same to the blanket. 

And leapt from the bed to the floor in a scrabbling panic as Buffy jumped up like a scalded cat in turn.

“What?  _ What?” _

“Buggering bed was swallowing me.” He sneered back at it suspiciously as he climbed to his feet.

“How…?”

“Guess… I imagined it could, then it  _ did. _ ”

She eyed him sidelong, then her lip twitched, and she brought a hand up to cover her mouth. 

“It's not bloody funny.” Except suddenly, it kinda  _ was _ , and he felt his own cheeks tugging towards a grin at the laughter in her eyes. 

“Sorry, sorry.” She waved a hand at him and heaved in a deep breath. “Long day.” 

Yeah _. No, no, don't stop smiling, luv… _ He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Or a short nineteen of them? Others will be thinking it's a sneaky trick to skip the cleanup....” He trailed off as it fell flat.

She sighed. “Well, I'm not standing here scared of the bed all night.” She extended her hand and slowly pushed it elbow-deep into the bed, then pulled it out, shook her head, and flopped her hand down on top. “There. Not solid, solid. Just don't think too much. Shouldn't be too hard.”

“Ha. Ha.” 

They sat cautiously, then lay back to stare at the ceiling again. 

“You feel like sleeping?” he asked after a bit, twisting to look at over at her.

“Nope.”

“Neither. Reckon it's a ghost thing?”

“I don’t know… what do you know about ghosts?”

He considered it. “Sweet fuck all, really.”

“I was possessed by a ghost once.”

“Heard about that,” he said in a careful monotone.

“It was… colder than this. And the gun was real. I mean, it came from nowhere and it went back to nowhere, but it killed someone in between. Oh, and I shot Angel with it.”

_ Huh. Wanker never mentioned that part. _

“Maybe we can…” She held her cupped hand above her and squinted at it. “ _ Ice cream.  _ Umm…  _ can of coke? _ Urgh, no fair.”

“Lab-girl said we're not ghosts, anyway.”

“So what are we?”

“Guess we'll find out.”

She was quiet - pondering - and the silence roared back until he jumped up again, brushing hands down his coat, through his hair, anything to try and make  _ noise, please.  _ “What's say we go see if she's got anything new to tell us?” he jabbered at her. “Or- or just- I dunno, go look around? Find someone to spook?”

“Alright.” She shrugged, climbing to her feet.

  
  


** + **

 

They found the place emptier, dimmer; 2 a.m. on a clock in the foyer. No one in the lab, but the whiteboard of notes had expanded and more books littered a desk. Spike steered them for a third-floor office where they found humans manning a row of phones; for a large room on the fourth floor that was filled with purple-skinned demons eating Chinese (takeout); finally for a staff room near ground level where several security guards were clustered around a TV showing football. The guards boo-ed and cheered and their radios crackled and the TV blared, and the edges of Spike's franticness seemed to sigh in relief. So she sat down in an empty chair and they watched the game too. 

There was the after game talk show accented by jeering commentary from the guards, then as it gave way to infomercials the sun began to peek through the blinds. The guards all stood and slapped each other on backs and shoulders in a round of  _ good game  _ and  _ good night  _ before flicking off the TV and leaving for homes.

Spike jumped up to follow them out, looking back from the doorway when she stayed in place. “Coming?”

“Can we just… sit for a while?”  _ Where's our companionable silence? _

He looked at the floor again, clenching his jaw. “You sit. I've gotta- gotta go do something. Catch you later, slayer.”

He left, and she blinked at the doorway, a hollow jumble of guilt and  _ don’t  _ and  _ please  _ and  **_ sorry _ ** swirling through her intangible stomach. 

_ But Giles will be here soon. He'll read the books and instruct Willow and a crystal will be smashed and everything will be fixed. That's how this works. Yep. _

 

 

 


	2. Just Rewards

 

 

 

** + **

 

Willow beamed, and Dawn cried, and Xander made nonsensical jokes, and all of them flapped their hands around awkwardly as Giles’ took refuge in folding his hankey. She waved back at the four of them;  _ this is going to get old fast. _

“Sunnydale?” she asked, and the mood turned somber.

“ _ Gone _ ,” said Xander. “Hellmouth, school, houses, mall, streets; one giant crater.” 

_ Oh. _ “And…the First?” 

“Gone. Vanquished. Turned tail.” 

He should have sounded pleased, but his smile was plasticky and his eyes were suddenly avoiding hers. 

“Good. That's good. Why are you all looking like it's  _ not  _ good?” 

“There's a… possibility,” said Giles quietly, “that the First has only lost its power because the balance has been restored. More than.”

“What-- Oh. Because I'm dead again.”

“Because a life was given. Or lives. Of sorts.”

_ Spike's. _ “You want to leave one of us a ghost? Na-uh. Not happening. And if we paid double, where's the First Good?”

“I'm just saying we'll need to exercise some  _ caution _ in attempting to re-corporealise you. Two. Ensure we go about it in the correct manner to avoid destabilising the forces again.”

“Right. So, ghost-Buffy it is in the interim. Ok. What's next?”

Giles and Wes put their heads together at the desk, while the others caught her up on their missing nineteen days and the now-paused plan to fly everyone to the council seat in England later in the week. 

“When do we leave?” she asked Giles. “This place gives me the creeps.” 

“I think,” he said, in that too-familiar ‘ _ just slow down’ _ voice, “we should attempt to investigate your dilemma from here. The resources available…” He shared a look with Wesley. 

“What? What else have you worked out?”

He pursed his lips. “Your…  _ essences _ , for want of a better term, seem to be bound to the amulet. And the amulet, in turn, is bound to the LA office of Wolfram and Hart. I don't believe you  _ could  _ leave, and certainly not without risk.”

Spike cut in, throwing his hands up. “So we  _ belong _ to-- Oh, this is just magnificent. Not enough he had to try and tell us how to live our lives, now he gets to be master of our ghost ones?  _ Fuck.” _

She ignored him. “So… you need Angel to sign the amulet over to you, then we can be on our way? Let's go do that.”

Giles tilted his head. “I suppose that could work.”

Spike clapped his hands together-- soundlessly. “Get the chequebook out, Pops. I'm suddenly feeling very adoptable.”

   
  


After a fruitless search for anything pertaining to ownership of the amulet, Gunn drew up a contract between ‘ _ Angel, CEO of Wolfram & Hart Los Angeles’ _ and ‘ _ Rupert Giles, Magistrate of the Watcher's Council’, _ and for the price of one 1964 genuine silver dollar Giles bought himself one ‘ _ Amulet, as described in attached annex’ _ .

As they passed the  _ Farewell from LA!  _ sign she breathed a sigh of relief and turned to say a smug  _ I told you so!  _ to Giles behind the wheel-- and hit the floor of Angel's office with something akin to the impact of belly flopping off a high-dive board. 

“Buffy?” Spike groaned somewhere beside her.

“Present. Felt that,” she moaned, opening her eyes.

“Yeah. Don't think the plan worked.”

From the somewhere near desk came a - more frustrated - groan, then a stapler came flying through Spike to bounce off the carpet beyond him.

“Hey!” she shouted, indignant, as Spike let out his own complaint.

“Watch the ectoplasm!”

“You don't  _ have  _ ectoplasm.” Angel snarked. “Get out of my office, Spike.”

The phone rang, and she bit back her next words as Angel picked it up. “Willow? Yeah, they're here. Ok.” He hung up and looked at her. “They're on their way back.”

“We'll wait downstairs,” she snapped, climbing to her feet.

  
  


** x **

 

The discussion raged all afternoon, but the decision was reached before it had started: take everyone to England as planned. Look after Dawn. Fred and Wesley to keep working on the ghostiness issue and collaborate via phone. Look after Dawn. Look. After. Dawn. 

He slouched (carefully) against the wall as she said one more round of goodbyes at the elevator across the foyer. Watched a man fiddling with some kind of water feature until the sound of Dawn’s rushed footsteps made him look over. 

“Spike…” she said, stopping in front of him awkwardly. 

He waved her off. “Yeah, I know, I'll--”  _ You'll what, wanker? Protect her better this time, so she doesn't get any-- ghostier? Not be able to hurt her with your incorporeal hands?  _ He swallowed. “I'll try to watch her back. They'll have her fixed up in no time, all the tech they have here, don't you worry.”

“No, Spike-- I mean, yes, but…  _ I'm-sorry-I-hated-you _ ,” she spat out in a rush, and then the tears came back. “I thought I'd never get to tell you.” She turned and ran to join the others in the elevator, leaving him staring dumbly after her.

He found his voice as the doors started closing. “I will!” he shouted quickly, and she gave a jerky nod.

  
  


** + **

 

They peered around the lab for a time, but Fred seemed to get twitchy and hesitant under scrutiny, so they left her to it to drift back upstairs.

“What are we going to  _ do _ ?” she asked in the elevator. “We can't just wander around waiting for someone to announce that they've found the solution.”

He bit the edge of his bottom lip - looking all kinds of delectable - and she reached out to place a palm on his chest before catching herself with it in midair.  _ But maybe…  _ She lowered it very slowly, willing him to  _ be solid! _ while he held himself dead still and looked to be doing the same. But her fingers only sunk right into the leather of his coat with that queasy-making feeling again. She pulled back with a sigh.

“We should go see boy-watcher,” he said. “Must be some books about ghosts somewhere in this place-” -flicker- “that could tea--”

Spike vanished.

“...each us something?” she finished sadly. 

  
  


** x **

 

_ I fell in-to a burning ring of fire… _ He tried to count out seconds, but the numbers didn't work right and now the song was gone too.  _ Black pit of despair, roof of flames; getting old hat. Old shoe. Old fast. Hold fast? Ah, there it is, ‘I went down down down and the flames went higher… _

He landed back in the hallway outside Angel's office and paused to listen to her shouting within.

“I don’t freakin’ want someone else's body. I want  _ my  _ body. Or a copy of Ghostlife for Dummies. Forget it. Now, help me find Spike.”

He stepped through the door and waved a salute. “Found.”

“Where did you go?” she shouted at him. “You just--  _ vanished _ again.”

“Someone else's body?” he asked. 

She huffed. “Angel's got some necromancer-dude on contract. Trying to offer me a corpse to ride around in. Can I get an  _ eww?” _

“Seem to recall you enjoy riding a corpse.”

“Oh, you pig,” she responded, automatically and heatlessly. She turned back to Angel. “Answer's no. Emphatically. But…” She looked over at him, then back to Angel, and her eyes slowly narrowed. “You weren't even going to ask him, were you?  _ That's _ why you didn't say a word when we were in here earlier. Only  _ Buffy  _ gets the special exemption pass for a black market flesh suit.”

“It wouldn't be unethical for the slayer. You've got to look at the bigger picture here-”

“No. N. O. No.” She stormed out through the nearest wall.

He looked at Angel. “You thought you'd  _ buy _ her someone else's body? With what? Offer to turn a blind eye to a few deaths?” He shook his head, clucking his tongue. “Don't know her at all, do you mate?”

“Piss off, Spike.”

He scoffed and followed Buffy’s exit, then stuck his hand back through to flip Angel the bird.

   
  


She was waiting right behind the wall and dodged to the side so he wouldn't go through her. “Wesley,” she said. “Ghost facts. We need ‘em.”

He nodded. “Lead on.”

  
  


** + **

 

Wesley’s desk was littered with everything from ancient manuscripts to Skeptic’s Monthly Magazine, while he held the phone to his ear behind it. He waved them towards seats, then finished his goodbyes and put the phone down. 

“I've been doing some research,” he said. 

“ _ No _ , really?” she said with gentle sarcasm. “Whatya got, Wolfram-watcher? We bow to your expertise.”

He paused for a moment, then brushed it off and piçked up a pad of notes. “There's plenty of information here on  _ ghosts,  _ but I'm uncertain how much will apply in your situation.”

“Yeah, people keep telling us we're not ghosts,” said Spike. “So what are we?” 

“Spirits. Souls. Yourselves, but incorporeal.”

“Which means…?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I do have some ideas?”

He tested their ability to touch a cross (intangible for her, painful at a foot away for Spike), brought out a mirror where she marvelled at her lack of reflection, had them attempt to move a ping-pong ball with hands and breath and conjure a copy of it in their palm. 

She slapped her hand through ball and desk in frustration. Useful ghost tricks, nil. 

“Maybe we're too new?” she suggested. “Maybe we need time to like, solid up?” 

“That is a possibility,” Wesley said. “Generally ghosts become weaker over time - I'm talking years - but there's little information on how they appear when first manifesting.”

“And we're not ghosts,” she added tiredly. 

“You’re already much more… visible, than the average ghost. They're just an imprint, a shadow if you will, and it seems to require enormous amounts of effort for them to make themselves visible.”

“Spike keeps disappearing.” He shot her a look, which she ignored. “We both did yesterday, but he's vanished twice more since then.” 

Wesley frowned. “Disappearing where?” he asked Spike. 

“Dunno.”

“Well, we're working on it. I'll let you know if we come up with anything.”

“Thanks,” her voice came out smaller than she'd meant it to, so she tried again. “Thank you. We'll, umm, be around.”

   
  


“Disappearing  _ where _ ?” she demanded as soon as they left Wesley’s office. 

“Told you, dunno. Let's split up, look around more. Things going on in this place want investigating while we're here.” 

He was already walking off again. He didn't ask where she'd gone, and she wasn't sure how she'd answer if he did.

She returned to the room they’d claimed, lying back on the bed to count holes in the ceiling tiles and wish he'd come and join her. 

  
  


** x **

 

He hung around Angel's office, heckling him for using his whole pack of goonies to take out one little necromancer. Once that got boring he drifted through a few offices, smirking every time someone jumped and spilt their coffee. Distraction, distraction, all pointless failing distractions from the soundless shadow of the girl he’d failed. Continued to fail. 

When did it become morning again? Where was she?

He looked in the bedrooms, the hallways and corridors. Staff rooms, lab, back through offices… no sign. Maybe she'd left the-- gone out into the city. They had, after all, made it as far as the city border before bouncing back. 

Time, time, what was it? Be somewhere where it's counted. Put your hand up and hope she spots it.

The cafeteria was full of chatter and movement, a radio playing music and newspapers open on tables. He sat down next to a nervous young man and told him, “Stay there. Turn the pages when I say.” Flash of fang and the boy does as commanded. No mention of Sunnydale in it; people turn away from the uncomfortable so fast.

  
  


** + **

 

When she'd counted three times with different results, she gave up on the tiles and went to find him. Downstairs, a group (herd?) of orange-skinned demons with the short pointed horns of young deer filled the lobby, arguing with everyone and anyone in strange high-pitched voices. 

She checked everywhere they'd been together, then branched into the offices around the room where the guards had watched TV. Eventually, she had to concede that wandering endless floors and busy rooms was a waste of time and slumped back to their room to wait.

   
  


From down the hall there was a soft knock, and then Wesley’s voice. “Buffy? Are you here?”

_ At least someone wants me.  _ She walked through the adjoining rooms before stepping out of her own; no point revealing their hidey-hole unnecessarily. “Yeah? Have you seen Spike?”

“He was in the cafeteria when I passed. I, uh, wondered if we could have a word.”

_ Alone?  _ “I'd show you in, but….” She waved her hand back through the door behind her.

“May I?” he asked, and at her nod opened the door. 

He waited to close it behind her, then crossed the room to stand gazing out of the windows. She looked around curiously while she waited for him to get his tongue around whatever it was he'd come to say. It really was a nice room - the bed was bigger and plusher, a giant TV mounted on the wall facing it. Some kind of weird twisty sculptures sat on a gleaming dark wood side table, a vase of fake flowers decorated the bench. 

“I've had my department studying the amulet,” he began eventually, speaking in a low voice, “and there may be one course of action that is open to us. To you.”

“You don't sound excited about it.”

“It seems it would be possible to break the amulet’s hold on you. To destroy it.”

“So we could leave LA?”

“So you could cross over.”

“You mean... kill us?” She cocked her head. “Kill us  _ more _ .”

“Let you move on to your eternal rest. If you chose.”

_ Go back to heaven. Be warm and safe and-- loved _ . “Kill us. No thanks. Had enough dying for one week. Let's focus on re-solidifying options before we go there.”

“Of course. However… if we’re unable to. With what he’s facing… it might be kinder to get it over with than watching it happen by degrees.”

“What do you--” 

The quiver in Spike's cheek when he reappeared in the lab; the way he seemed torn between swallowing down every inch of her with his eyes and watching anxiously over his shoulder. 

The tugging darkness she'd felt, those moments in the lab.

_ No no no. God, please no.  _

_ This isn't fair. _

“You don't have to decide anything now. I just felt you deserved to know the option was there.”

“ _ Deserved, _ ” she spat. “There's a word. He  _ saved the world, _ Wesley. Six billion people. And kinder on who, exactly?” Their restricted unlives suddenly felt very precious and oh-so tenuous as her mind raced probing out for new possible dangers from every direction. “Who else knows about this? The amulet.”

“No one.”

“Don't tell him. Or Angel. Or anyone. Don't you  _ dare _ breathe a word. Find a way to keep us here, ghostly or otherwise, and protect that damn amulet as if your life depends on it. Don't make me claw my way back from heaven again to exact retribution on you, because believe me I will.”

Wesley took a step back from her vitriol, and spoke to the window again. “It's your decision. We could… attempt to bind you closer to this plane, to give us more time.” He didn't sound committed. “But…”

“It might hold me back? Do it. Just don't tell him. Please?” 

He looked over at her. 

“I've had the sneak preview, Wes. I can wait. But he can't know.”

Wesley sighed and nodded his agreement. “I'll work on it.”

 

Once Wesley had left she smoothed over her face and wiped ineffectually once more at the blood on her jeans, then marched downstairs to find him. How long had it been? Had it been dark outside when they left Wesley’s office together? Stupid stubborn sulky vampire. She'll have to call him broody. Belligerent. A bastard. Anything. Where the hell was he?

She went dashing through the wall into the cafeteria and halted in the middle of the room when she spotted him. He sat slumped at a table with his back to her and his head buried in his folded arms on the tabletop, and the support of her insults dissolved at the way he was folded in on himself so  _ smally.  _

He must have sensed her somehow, because his head came up and he turned and rose in one movement to meet her as she stepped forward. A grin spread across his face and lifted his eyes into something both eager and contrite, and she felt her own smile come out in return. They stopped a foot apart with their hands raised pointlessly once more, then dropped them and edged closer until bare centimetres separated their faces. 

“Been looking for you,” he murmured. 

“Been looking for you too. Can we stick together now?”

“Yes. Please.”

There was a lungful of words held at bay on her tongue, and probably a few tears too. But… he was here, and she was here, and the rest could wait. “Good.”

 


	3. Unleashed

 

 

 

** + **

 

Like all great powerhouses (and, it seemed, like their ghostly selves), Wolfram and Hart never slept. But it did have its quieter times and places, and so for a few hours before pre-dawn they made much of it theirs to roam in peace. 

There were rooms within rooms, places hidden from the eye but not from the incorporeal. An office on the fourth floor had a whole room of tribal masks behind a hidden door; the security control room hid a couple of arcade machines and a fridge full of beer, which Spike eyed morosely until she told him to pull his head out of the fridge door.

Underground, they found themselves barred from the records room; the receptionist chuckling as they pushed ineffectually at an invisible barrier that was somewhat like the repulsion between magnets and made them feel… wrong. Spike swung a fist and a foot at it with a shout, but the force of both was absorbed softly to leave him gritting his teeth in frustration. 

_ Let us find something to  _ _ feel _ _.  _

  
  


Sound came first. Projected from his booted feet on hardwood stairs as he stomped off down them after some petty argument -  _ clomp clomp -  _ and she froze mid-complaint, cocking her head at his legs. He halted the stomping-off to see what had silenced her, tilting his head up at her questioningly, and she lifted her foot and stomped it down with all the intent she could shove behind it.  _ Thunk.  _ Then  _ thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk  _ as she ran down the stairs and stomped her foot at him with a grin -  _ Thunkk -  _ and ran away laughing. 

They catalogued: feet on floors, hands slapped on tables. Hands slapping into objects? The noise was there, even though they continued passing through without effect. Still, it was something. Interaction. They showed Wesley, Fred;  _ Yes, _ Fred laughed,  _ I can hear it. Well done. _

She almost asked,  _ Do we get a sticker? _ But where would it have gone, and asking would slap this victory into perspective. So, run some more and laugh at the sounds.

Potentially useful ghost tricks, +1

 

 

** x **

 

One night they stumbled upon a werewolf, sleeping the sleep of the heavily sedated in a cage below ground. Buffy studied it curiously, hand hovering as if she wanted to pat the damn thing. 

“It's different,” she said. “From Oz, I mean.”

“Maybe it's a girl.” 

“Different from Verucca, too.”

He was joking, but when he joined her in the cage, he saw both facts were true - the wolf was a female, and her muzzle was pointier, fangs longer, ears rounder. “Different species?” he suggested. 

“Maybe. What do you think she's doing here?”

Hate to imagine. “Shall we find out?” 

They settled down to wait, but just before moonset Angel arrived. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked them.

“What are you planning on doing to the poor werebitch?” he snapped back. 

“What--” 

“Shut up,” Buffy snapped at them both before things could escalate. Then she turned to Angel with that sickeningly endearing look and spoke more softly. “What's her story? Maybe we could help. Somehow. I mean hey, she can't hurt us.”

“She's just here for the night; I'm about to let her out. No help needed.” 

Angel's eyes were cold enough on Buffy to make her drop her own; seemed the wanker couldn't abide the way she existed both unmournable and unable to be pushed away to pine over. He'd have delighted in Angel's stuffered anger at the situation, but the coldness hurt her - always thought more of the giant waste of space than he deserved - so he only grew angry himself in turn. 

“Oh. Ok,” she said quietly, and they left Angel to his wolf and headed to the far side of the building. 

  
  


Locked doors have become teasing invitations, so when they heard a latch click they stopped and backtracked down the corridor. Muffled conversation on the other side -  _ phone?  _ she mouthed at him, and he nodded. Couple of days ago they'd caught someone on the second floor making international calls to a phone sex line, and any further blackmailable snippets of gossip would be something up their incorporeal sleeves at least. He held his hand up for her to let him listen, smile fading as meaning trickled through vampire ears to send a metaphorical shudder down his spine.  _ Eating  _ a werewolf? The depths of human depravity would never cease to amaze him. 

When the conversation ended, he motioned her to follow out of any earshot before he repeated what he'd picked up. Then they went looking for Wesley. 

  
  


“And tell Angel,” he added before they left the watcher’s office, “  _ ‘No help needed’ _ my ass.”

  
  


** + **

 

“There,” said Spike that afternoon, “I'll wager that's our werewolf.” He nodded his head at the uncomfortable-looking young woman who was trailing Fred into the building, a soft toy dog poking out of the handbag clutched in her arms. 

“Agreed,” she said, and they dropped in behind the pair.

“Thought you might like some company,” Buffy said as they joined them in the cell room. “Nina, right?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Ooh, you guys!” said Fred. “Heroes of the hour, I hear.” She turned and stage-whispered to Nina, “It was these two who saved you from being dinner this evening.”

“I thought that was Angel?” Nina asked. 

Spike snorted, but left it that with a warning look from Buffy. 

“ _ Anyway,” _ said Buffy, “We could wait with you? Experienced wolf-sitter here.”

“You've… done it before?” Nina asked.

“Yep. I used to take turns watching over a friend in the library cage at school….” It hit her with a pang.  _ The library. It's been so long.  _

“ _ Library _ cage?”

“Weird school. Long story. So settle in.” She walked through the bars into the cage and Nina jumped back in alarm. “Oh, sorry, I forget. Ghost.”

“They won't hurt you,” said Fred.

“Wouldn't, can't,” said Buffy. “And neither can you, us.”

Nina relaxed herself. “So, what are  _ you _ ?” she asked Spike.

He smirked at Nina for a moment, and Buffy readied herself for an eye roll. Then he waved a hand through the bars and told Nina, “Ghost. Vampire. Spike the Vampire Ghost, and she's Buffy the Ghost Vampire Slayer.”

“Spike the Vampire Ghost  _ Champion, _ ” she added, to an uncomfortable grimace from him. 

To Nina’s credit, she took that lot in with no more than a lifted brow. Probably just one more unfathomable discovery in a day full of them. Or maybe she had more in common with Oz than the wolf thing.

“Ok. Umm, sit down? If you, you know, sit,” Nina said with a slight flush, and found a spot herself. 

“So, first time?” Buffy asked. “Or, first time knowing what's happening.”

“Yep. Shape-shifting virgin here. Angel showed me the video from last night, but… It looked like a music-less sequel to Thriller, something that only exists inside a TV screen.”

“ _ World's a vaster place than we ever did see,” _ said Spike. “We'll have to find you your own theme song, bit of Metallica maybe?”

She didn't really look like a Metallica kinda girl, somehow. “What’ve they suggested for long-term solutions?” Buffy asked her.

“Oh.” Nina’s face dropped, and she pursed her lips for a moment before saying instead, “How long did your friend last? If you don't mind me asking.”

Buffy thought back, then clicked. “Oz? The wolfie-friend?” Nina nodded. “He's fine! Just doesn't need wolf-sitting these days, since he stopped shifting. He runs a monastery in Tibet with his fiance, sort of a safe haven for other werewolves to learn to control it, free from the cagelife. Angel didn't tell you?”

“No,” said Nina with a tight smile, “he didn't.”

  
  


Seemed to be the theme, lately. She kept trying to catch him, make him  _ see  _ her, but Angel seemed to take their presence as a cruel joke from Wolfram and Hart - ghost of relationships past, with a left side of rubbing his nose in it. She  _ felt _ her intangibility around him, and suspected he was hoping they'd just disappear if he looked away long enough. 

  
  


** x **

 

They stayed close - to each other, and to the living. Too much time seemed to drift somehow if they weren't paying attention; twice they’d missed calls from Dawn and found themselves a whole day behind when they checked in at Wesley’s office. 

His flashes of darkness and flames grew, and sometimes he could swear he wasn't alone in that place - that something was there with him, sidling towards him, watching and waiting to devour him. He wished he could devour Buffy by eye in turn; take some of her light inside to carry him through the blackness. But he feared the reverse was true, and so twitched back whenever she tried to touch him. Then she started flickering too, and by the fear on her face he knew he was right.

He considered going to Wesley, but suspected the man's newly-rediscovered tweed suit wouldn't let him keep secrets from the slayer. Besides, Harm was right near his office, and the more they could avoid her the better, now that she'd finally realised an incorporeal slayer was no threat and come back to work. Angel, then? Lord knows he'd be only too glad to work on separating them permanently. 

But all idle fancy. Blurted it out to her in the cafeteria in the end, like he’d known he would. 

“I'm dragging you by the hand into hell, Buffy.”

The man at the next table quietly got up and left.

She swallowed, then pinned him with eyes fiercer than her grip had been as she hissed, “I'm not letting you go.”

_ Infuriatingly stubborn bitch.  _ Could almost believe she could pull him upwards with her instead from the force in that look. But, evidence said his sins were too heavy, even for her.

“They'll solve this,” she added, softer. “We've just got to hold on in the meantime. Alright?”

And it wasn't alright, nothing was alright about any this. But she was looking at him with a face that said,  _ please,  _ and how could he deny her?

 

 

 


	4. Hell Bound

 

 

 

** + **

 

Good news first from the London team: the defeat of the First likely caused by the  _ act,  _ not the result, confirming what she'd felt somewhere inside: the action of loving is what fights evil, not the dying.  _ Corporalising? _ she’d asked. 

And there came the bad:  _ I'm sorry,  _ said Giles,  _ it's never been done, and doesn't appear to be doable.  _

He must have picked it up in her tone, or maybe Wesley had tipped him off;  _ Do you want us to come?  _ he asked.

_ No,  _ she told them all,  _ don't come here. _ Maybe it was the place; maybe there was a turnstile to hell in the basement, and even a saint would wind up in eternal torment if they died in these halls.  _ Stay safely away, guys.  _

Conversations with Dawn, with her friends, became longer, yet contained fewer words. What do you say from the edge? Maybe you just focus on holding on. Slowly the calls got further apart.

She hovered over Wesley, and tried to snag Angel's attention. Smiled and skipped alongside Gunn as he carried things to and fro; trilled song lines for Lorne (music for music's sake; turned out he couldn't read ghosts). Sat on a table in the lab encouraging Fred as she worked, charmed a young researcher in Ancient Artifacts.  _ Look at me! Notice me!  _ _ Help _ _ us!  _ Attempted to project urgency without revelations. 

_ We've gotta tell them,  _ Spike said,  _ gotta  _ _ make _ _ them do something.  _ She remembered Wesley’s words and shuddered.  _ No.  
Do. Not. Tell. Them.  _ They fought, but she always won out. Then it was back to the nudging and prompting.

Time was running out, though. There were falls to dim corridors filled with muffled voices; to gloomy rooms of mocking laughter. When they eventually made it back to one another they no longer commented, just drank each other in through wide eyes with their lips pressed together. 

The shadows whispered cruelly, and they spoke lies.  _ It’s coming for you.  _

  
  


** × **

 

He waited until Buffy got on the phone to London, then told her he'd wait in the lab.    
  


Fred was at her desk, a pen behind her ear and another in her hand as she studied some sort of readout-graph-thingy. 

“Spike,” she said, trying to tuck the hand-pen behind her ear too, before setting it down with a flash of a shy smile as she stood up. “Can I- can I help you with something?”

“That’s the question, innit. Or rather, can you help  _ her?” _

“What?”

He strode over to her whiteboard, staring at the numbers and lines as if they meant something. Maybe they did. Maybe the secret was right there, and him too thick to read it. “How’re you getting on with the recorporealising mission?”

“I've, um, got some ideas. I mean-- Well, they're just theories. Or, more like hunches. But--” She stopped and shuffled the papers on her desk. “Shouldn't you be talking to Wesley? He knows more about the supernatural… he's been studying the amulet. I really don't….”

“Think we're at a standstill on the magical mumbo-jumbo,” he sighed. Then tried for alluring, “But you know how to get round it, don't you? Take the rules of the universe and bend them… make things happen.”

“I-- I guess.”

He hesitated for a moment, looking over to study her. Then dove for it. “See, keep having these flashes, right. Fire and brimstone, whole nine yards. Previews, could say. ‘S only a matter of time for me, I know that. But the thing is…” he dropped his voice to a quiet murmur, “I'm dragging her there with me. Drowning man pulling down his saviour. And I can’t push her away with that damn amulet binding us. It's not right, Fred. You've got to help us, I can't--” His breath caught, and he had to pause to try and steady himself, control slipping unexpectedly at the truth of it. “I can't do this to her.  _ Do _ something.  _ Please _ . Either make her living again, or find a way to break that amulet.”

Fred opened her mouth, but he couldn't remain there with those words hovering in the air. He left.

  
  


** + **

 

The shadows whispered cruelly, and they spoke the truth.

“Don't you see, little girl? He was never meant for this.  _ You _ chose him to wear that amulet. He made himself worthy of it all for  _ you _ .  _ You _ beat that soul into him, and now it condemns him to suffer beside you. You're letting him think it's him going down, when he’s earned his place upstairs fair and square and you've used your one ticket. And no chance of a renewal, with what you’ve done. Did you think everyone would forget all those girls? Poor Annabelle, dumped in a hole in the woods? And  _ weak, maggot; _ why was  _ Chloe _ the name you didn't bother to learn? You might have been worthy once, child, but you've done nothing but sully yourself since.”

When she came back that time, she could see straight through her hands. She waited for him to vanish in turn, and wished he wouldn't. But when he did, she went to find Wesley. 

  
  
  


Her eyes felt too big, as if they were all she was now.  _ Cheshire cat,  _ she thought,  _ but without a smile. Only a watcher, with the Watcher.  _

“Wesley…” She looked at her lap, at the chair visible straight through it. “If we… if we stop coming back. Would you, would you do it? Break it.” 

“Of course.” His voice was soft, soothing; that calm, measured accent that hinted of tea and libraries and all things properly ordered. “Have you spoken to him yet?”

“No, I-- He wouldn't listen.”

“I'm sure he'd not want you to suffer for him.”

She shook her head, bit her lip. Turned her face away. Whispered, “That’s not… I've done some awful things, Wes. You were wrong. He's not the one who deserves to pay.” Her over-large eyes felt even stranger now, as if they should be prickling with wet heat but couldn't resolve themselves solid enough to do so; the ghosts of ghost tears. 

Wesley studied her silently. “Ok,” he said eventually. “I give you my word; if you become trapped on the other side, then I'll break the amulet.”

“Thank you.” She tried to smile at him, and he made a twisted attempt at one too.

  
  


** x **

 

And then suddenly, there was hope. Fred’s hair tied back messily with a rubber band, calculations spilling from whiteboard to windowpanes. 

Good, this was  _ good.  _ He beamed at Fred from his spot by the wall, excitement racing but held in check so as not to break her concentration. Then she capped her pen, clapped her hands together. Grinned proudly as she turned to face him. 

And walked right through him, talking to herself as she went to find the others.

_ Shit. _

  
  
  
  


Parts were sourced and things arranged, Fred seeming to flit here-there-everywhere as the machine came together all day.  _ Has anyone seen them?  _ people kept asking, and their names rang out through the intercom system like lost children as he waved a hand in front of Angel's face. He paced up and down the lab,  _ Come on, slayer. Where the bloody fuck are you? Things are happening.  _

When finally they were only waiting on the return of Gunn and Angel, Wesley cajoled Fred upstairs to  _ eat something, have a coffee  _ before the next stage.

  
  


** + **

 

_ Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no.  _

Fred sat before Wesley’s desk, and he put the amulet down between them. Buffy kicked the side of his chair as hard as she could, but no one noticed.

  
  


** x **

 

“I promised Buffy,” said Wesley, “that if they vanished and didn't return, I'd break the binding on the amulet. Let them cross over naturally.”

“You can do that?” she asked.

“Yes. I raised the option with her when they first arrived, but she refused it. Adamantly, although I tried to explain the risks of remaining bound this way. I felt it was her choice who she chose to discuss it with. But then…”

“She changed her mind?”

“She'd become certain  _ she _ was pulling them both into hell. These… vanishing patches. I've tried to convince her otherwise, but she's not exactly an easy person to sway.” 

That was that then. Slayer'd had the answer all along. He'd wring her bloody neck if it ever became possible, send her straight back to ghostliness. Where the  _ fuck  _ was she?

“They're as- as stupidly pigheaded as each other, aren't they? Spike's been spinning me the same tale of woe, ‘ _ don't let me drag her down with me’ _ . So. Let's get this machine warmed up, then we can slap them both.”

“I hope so. If we can't….”

Fred was still for a long moment, then she nodded.

There was a bang and a tinkling of glass inside fittings as all the lights in the room blew, then he was falling.

  
  


** + **

 

In the sudden dark of Wesley’s office there was a roar of wind, then something  _ hit  _ her across the face. She fell back in surprise and landed on her bum on the carpet, bringing a hand to her cheek as she blinked in confusion. 

_ Buffy Summers,  _ said a raspy English voice,  _ it's time to meet the reaper. _

The room spun, and became somewhere else. Chains and bonesaws laid out on a table, a row of gruesomely wounded people watching from a bench and tittering behind their hands.

And in a blink, a man standing behind the table, watching her with hollow dead eyes.

His hair was lank and greasy, dark like the deep shadows beneath his eyes and the old-fashioned duster coat covering his body. He wore some sort of ruffled white shirt underneath, the collar sticking up like it was there to prevent him from licking his stitches after a trip to the vet.

“Nice blouse,” she said. 

“Yours is a bit of a mess,” he said, “why don't we fix that?”

She looked down to find her shirt and singlet gone, the soft pink fabric of her favourite apocalypse bra the only thing covering her nipples. “You bastard,” she growled, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Language, missy. Though I don't suppose it matters now, does it? Last stop before hell, here. Just a bit of fun before the main event. Besides, only my eyes can see you. Or maybe this crew should watch.” He waved at the audience on the bench.

She opened her mouth to snap a retort, but no sound came out. Another blink, and her hands were tied behind her back, rough ropes cutting into her skin.  _ Skin.  _ She tugged against them as he rounded the table and stepped over to grab her chin in his hand. 

“You know where this is going. No point fighting any more. I get to play, and then you get to burn. This is  _ my  _ world, and I won't let you scream. Unless I decide the vampire deserves to listen.”

_How did he…?_ Suddenly it all fell into place. _He's changing my reality._ _He made us invisible - that's why we couldn't find each other. And he's got Spike._

She jerked her chin back from his hand, and he backhanded her savagely across the face, knocking her to the ground again. Her lip  _ tingled _ , hot and painful where it must have split, and she grinned wildly at the sensation.  _ Finally.  _

“Oh, you should  _ not  _ have done that,” she told him. She kicked out with a foot, but it went through him like anyone else;  _ so not fair.  _ Still, there had to be a way. He swung a foot at her stomach in return, and she grabbed for it just before it hit, twisting it outwards to knock him from his feet too.  _ Ha. _

“I don’t know who you think you are,” she told him, “but we're not ready to go anywhere. You're messing with the wrong ghosts, asshole.”

He flickered out to appear behind the table again.  _ Chicken.  _

“I don’t think so,” he said, “I think I'm just getting started.”

Flicker, and he was gone, leaving her alone with the row of seated observers. _Unfair chicken bastard,_ she thought with a shiver. “What are you looking at?” she snapped at the (ghost?) people, then headed for the door, rubbing her wrists together to try to work them free and studiously ignoring her lack of shirt.

  
  


** x **

 

He landed with a  _ thwump _ that felt glorious as it knocked the breath out of him: it  _ felt. _

He looked around. _Basement. Of course it had to be another bloody basement._ The walls were black and ashy, the floor smattered with blood. A weak lamp stood on a desk in the corner, fading off and on with an electrical buzz. _Tonight on basement reviews…_ _More style than Xander’s! More room than Buffy’s! Quieter than the high school's! And now with extra spook!_

He sighed and started looking for the stairs.

The hallway seemed to go in a loop, and eventually he found himself back by the room with the lamp for a third time - only now with a frilly-necked tosser sitting at the desk, and an empty seat in front of it.

“Have a chair,” said the man. “I think it's time for a review.” His voice was disturbingly familiar; the presence from the black pit, maybe?

“Yeah, not interested,” he told him, and turned to carry on looping.

“Oh I think you are. Or, ought to be. I've just been browsing this girl's file, and she's giving up rather a lot for you, isn't she?”

The man held up a polaroid of Buffy standing in the foyer upstairs. Despite his better judgement, Spike stepped into the room.

“Look what you've done to the girl, William. She was rather fetching when she arrived; bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, for a ghost. Even better now though, with the fear of hellfire haunting them.” 

He held the photo out, and Spike took it, fingering the texture on the edge of the paper idly as he looked at Buffy’s image.  _ God, she did look scared _ . Arms around herself, eyes big and searching. A few blurry people were passing by in either direction, heads and feet turned away from the lost little ghost in their midst.

“She knows how to end this, lad. Has the solution right there, but she won't take it while you're floating around with the needy eyes. So you're going to drag her all the way down with you if you don't make a choice.”

She was probably, he realised, looking for him. Something in the way she held her hands and mouth; ready to both smile and growl, wave her fists and raise her palm before him. Probably looking for him now, too.

“You'll always come back to the basement, however far you think you’ve gone. And soon it's time to go to the lowest one. You know it's what you deserve.”

“Yeah. I do. And one day I will. But not today. I've got a mission, don't I? Gotta go find the girl. Thanks for the chat.” 

He turned to leave, and the man appeared in the doorway.  _ Ghost? _ The man whipped his hand out, lightning fast, and something sharp sliced through Spike's cheek.  _ Bleedin’ knife-wielding ghost?  _ A fist came next, knocking the breath out of him for the second time in one evening between its landing and his impact with the wall at the back of the room. 

Spike chuckled. “So you can hit. I can do that too.” He swung a fist at the man's face, but it flew straight through.  _ Bugger _ . The man raised the knife again, but this time Spike dove for him, through him like smoke. He scrabbled a landing in the hallway and took off running down it.  _ Stairs. Lab. Where are you, Buffy? _

  
  


** + **

 

She made it to the doors of the lab before mister reaper-man popped up in front of her. Inside, everyone was gathered around Fred’s solid-making circle thingy; still no sign of Spike. A humming noise was slowly building, and some sort of lights around the circle with it - wouldn't be long now. 

“Going in?” said the man. “I wouldn't. Well, yes, I would, but only to kill them all.”

“What’ve you done with Spike?” she hissed. 

“He's going down. Basement to basement. You'll never find him, and he'll never be free unless you go down there first. Didn't he tell you to let him go?”

_ Right. Not here then.  _ She looked left and right down the halls, then turned left and shouted his name as she ran. 

  
  


** x **

 

_ “Spike!”  _

It sounded both loud and quiet, inside his head and far away. But right, definitely to his right. He went that way, and stairs materialised where they weren't before. He raced up them, calling out for her and listening between, and it came again,  _ “Spike?”  _

A pulsewave swept through the building suddenly, blue-white and fluid. It set his senses tingling like the zap from an electric fence, and seemed to draw him northwards. _Fred’s machine._ _Was she there?_

Stairs opened to the entrance hall, opposite side of the building from where she ought to be. Halfway across the open space frilly-shirt-man materialised suddenly to hit him like a ram, headbutt to the chest, and they both hit the floor. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Spike shouted as the man grabbed him by the hair. “Who the bloody fuck are you?”

He used his grip on Spike's hair to smack his head into the floor, letting out a genuinely evil-sounding laugh. “I'm the reaper, boyo. Come to take you two to hell.” 

_ “Spike!”  _ she called again, much closer, and as the reaper turned to the sound, Spike drove his fist at the man's face in a sudden desperate protective rage. 

The hit landed solidly, knocking him clear, and the man looked startled for a moment before his face darkened with anger. “You dare!” he shouted. 

“I do,” Spike sneered at him, “It's all mind games, innit? Divide and conquer, playing us off against each other.” He hit out again, catching the man in the neck before he sent a hit back and flickered out of reach. “Making yourself solid when it suits. Making us invisible, I'd hazard a guess.” He feinted a hit, then kicked the man in the knee, hoping for a crack.

“I make the rules here!” the reaper fumed as his leg buckled and he flickered back and upright again.

“Yeah? Well, we don't follow them.”

And then she was there, racing for him, glorious in her vehemence as she brought her hands out from behind her back and  _ the scythe? _ materialised between them. Fear of hellfire in her eyes? No, reaper was well wrong there. Her own fire in her eyes, and fit to burn (and why was she clad in her bra? Not that he was complaining, mind).

He got one more hit in, knuckles slamming into jawbone with a satisfying crunch, then she swung the scythe through the tosser’s stiff-collared neck. The reaper froze for a second, eyes wide with disbelief, then as they began to drift out of focus something black and oily seeped up around his feet. Spike grabbed Buffy’s hand and jerked her back, and they watched in sickened fascination as the reaper was dragged down and dissolved until every trace of him was gone.   
  


He looked down at his hand, but it hung empty next to hers. “Did I just…”

“Yes!” She tried to grab his hand, but it went through again. “Dammit,” she said, but didn't stop grinning. 

“We'll work it out,” he said.

“We will.” It sounded like a promise. “Where’d my scythe go? It  _ was _ here, right? I mean, you saw it?”

“Yeah. More, where'd your shirt go?”

“Oh,” she looked down. “Dunno.” Her bare stomach held a ragged hole, still smeared with thick blood. “Ick.”

“Nice bra,” he told her.

“Thanks. It's my apocalypse one. You know, supportive, comfortable, looks pretty if it becomes my ghost outfit…”

He chuckled. “Prettiest ghost I ever did see, slayer.”

“The amulet!” she shouted suddenly, “We've gotta get to Wes!”

They ran.

  
  


** + **

 

This late at night they avoided running into anyone on the way, but at Wesley’s door she hesitated, suddenly conscious of her state of undress. She closed her eyes and took a breath, then tilted her chin up defiantly and turned the handle.

“Slayer,” said Spike softly, “nice shirt.”

She looked down, and found her favourite comfy sweater in place. Soft and baggy in all the right places, creamy vanilla and hanging halfway down her thigh. She smiled at it. “It is.”

  
  


Wesley was both pleased to see them and morose over their having missed their one shot with Fred’s machine - the whole thing had exploded to mangled and burnt out parts after doing its zappy-zap, with no chance of a rebuild. 

“Don't worry about it,” she said, “we're not going anywhere. I think we killed the reaper.”

Spike started chuckling, and then it caught her too, and he threw back his head to laugh louder. Wesley looked at them with anxious concern as she giggled uncontrollably. 

“What on earth do you mean?” he asked. 

“It was Buffy,” Spike said between laughs, “don’t look at me. The reaper came for us, and she  _ slayed _ him.” 

They both flopped on the floor to laugh like idiots then, and if Wesley thought they'd lost the plot entirely, she couldn't bring herself to care. 

  
  


Back in their room later, she rolled to her side on the bed to look at Spike watching her.

“We're not supposed to be here,” he said softly. “Still breaking someone's rules, I figure.”

“Wouldn't be us if we didn't.” She grinned, but the laughter of earlier had run its course and faded, remembrance of guilt and secrets and ( _ would Fred keep theirs?) _ returning. “Spike, listen… It doesn't matter where we're meant to be. We’re here. Sort of. Let's just keep holding each other in the middle. I don't-- I'm not ready to not be here with you.”

He searched her face quietly, then nodded. “Okay, pet. You know I won't let anyone drag you away.” He brought a hand up to her cheek and ever-so-softly stroked at it, and for a second: there was  _ contact _ , the touch of his finger caressing her skin. She inhaled sharply and watched him do the same, then his fingers slipped through with a ripple, and they both sighed sadly. “We'll work it out,” he said.

“Yeah. We will.”

  
  


Useful ghost tricks, +2

 

 

 


	5. The Life of the Party

 

  
  


** + **

 

_ Clean jeans,  _ she thought, standing at the foot of the bed in their room.  _ I’m wearing clean jeans… _

Nothing. 

_ The ones with the butterflies on the leg. Sort of slightly flared. Brown stitching…  _ She closed her eyes and imagined them; the way they hugged her hips, the feel of the hem brushing against her bare ankle. 

She peeked one eye open… and let out a happy squeal. “Look! I'm changed! And… I lost my shoes.” She frowned briefly, then smiled again. “I was sick of those ones anyway.”

Spike chuckled from his spot against the bed’s headboard. “I'm sure you can think up some more.”

“I wish you'd have a turn.”

“Told you. Don't need to,” he said, waving at the black jeans/black shirt/black coat he'd been wearing since… well, they could be the ones he'd had on when she first met him. The coat definitely was. He tilted his head, appraising her. “Wonder if I could dress you, though? Can picture it clear enough; nice set of lingerie, stockings, maybe a fluffy tail and a pair of ears….”

“You drop that thought right now, buster.” She shot him a faux-offended glare. “I'm not your Playboy Bunny--” 

_ Anya.  _

_ What did she think of Playboy? Why don’t I know?  _

She sat down on the end of the bed with a sigh. 

“Luv?” he asked, shuffling forward until his legs dangled off next to hers.

“It's just… this all feels like one crazy dream. Like none of it's really real, so it doesn't matter. Then something reminds me, and it all comes racing back. I'm not going to wake up on that cot at Revello to the sound of Heather and Amanda arguing upstairs. I'm not even going to wake up at Revello again.”

“You are real, pet,” he said soberly. “Don't go imagining you're not. Dunno what might happen.” He stood up. “And there's a whole real world out there. Maybe we should get out and see some of it.”

“You mean… leave Wolfram and Hart?” 

“Why not? Hit the town, see the sights. Scare some tourists. Should be safe enough to explore now that you've killed death.”

“Would you stop saying that! He was only a ghost.” 

He smirked at her silently.

She thought about it. How long had they been floating around this building now? Felt like a lifetime. Her whole ghost-time, anyway. No wonder she was feeling off. “Okay,” she said as she rose to stand next to him. “Sounds like fun. Let's do it.”

  
  


** x **

 

It was nearing morning when they stepped outside, and she paused to consider the eastern horizon. “Have you tried going in the sun?” she asked. “Without the fancy glass, I mean.”

He had to think about it; somehow the fiery ball of death had fallen out of notice, constantly tucked away behind the safety glass as it was. No prickly sense of it anymore either, gone the way of scent and sleep, touch and taste. “Nope.”

“Maybe you could.”

He shrugged. “May-be. So, where are we going? You’d know your way in this town better than I would, I’d wager.”

She looked around the street. “I guess we're stuck on foot… maybe we should, like, walk around a bit? See what's nearby.”

“Get the lay of the land? Okay.”

Been like this all day - both struck by a sudden uncertainness about everything now that a potentially long span of ghostly existence stretched out ahead.

They turned right and followed the footpath, and the further they got from Wolfram and Hart, the lighter her step became. And the easier it got to talk about it. 

“We should be watching more,” she said. “Angel's… something’s going on with him. I can't work out why he came here.”

“ ‘Cause he's an idiot,” he said first, scoffing. She was right though - there was more to the wanker’s constant smouldering resentment than just his irritation at the two of them ghosting around. “We should. Lot going on in that place. Lot of things a couple of ghosts could pry into.”

They reached another streetcorner, and she stopped to look at the sky. “We'd better turn around if we’re going to miss the sunrise.”

Across the street was an empty building lot, fenced away with wire and corrugated iron. It looked long abandoned, tall weeds growing up through broken concrete at the edges and a grime-smothered lock on the gate. 

“No,” he said, “see what's in there first.” He crossed the street and walked through the fence to find an eighth acre of open space, walled on three sides by the neighbouring buildings. The ground had been cleared back to dirt at some point, now recolonised with grass and twisting weeds to make it almost park-like. If you squinted at it right. In the dark. “Let’s try the sun,” he said. 

“Here?” she asked, brows lifted at him. “What if it burns?”

“Then we duck into one of the walls.”

“What if- what if we run out of ghost juice in the day, and can't get back to Wolfram and Hart?”

“We're not going to run out of ‘ghost juice,’ you daft bint,” he laughed. “And if it seems likely, then we'll run back through the middle of the block. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said reluctantly. 

They sat against the back wall, facing east, and watched the sky lighten slowly. No prickling, but he'd be lying through his teeth to say he was as comfortable as he was pretending to be. Slayer was worse though, eyes moving in jumps between him, the sky, and the empty lot like a nervous rabbit. She was lovely in this light, gold tones of her skin and hair glowing bright and warm as she shuffled and fidgeted beside him.

When the first rays of the sun finally reached them she stilled at last, eyes melting into wondering affection as they stared back into his. Had he thought her  _ lovely?  _ Someone strike his mendacious tongue from his mouth; she was  _ exquisite _ . The look in those green eyes made him want to duck his face bashfully - for why it should be directed at him made no sense - yet to do so would require turning away from it, and this he could not do. So he looked, and he probably had a stupid smile on his face but he didn’t care, and before he could tell her she said,  _ you’re beautiful, Spike. And I love you.  _

And like the dope he was, he said,  _ I know, _ and was too slow to catch the words before they fell out. 

“Good,” she said, “because you can't get away.”

And oh, he hadn't meant to let her voice it true, and so much was wrong, but she was right. So he let it be.

  
  


** + **

 

His eyes went… frightened, somehow, when she told him he couldn't leave her. Did he want to? Felt like they'd swapped roles in a way, she the one declaring love to have it denied, then refused, and now acknowledged without return. 

But no, he'd gone down to the basement for her, into the dark to keep her safe. And more than that - he'd climbed up from it too, shoved everything aside to come and stand by her side. 

Whatever words they put or ignored between each other, their feet were drawn into step.

Life might have become one crazy dream, but he was in it. Spike was sitting with her in the  _ sunshine  _ of a clear autumn day, and he was beautiful. She had to keep looking at him, at the smooth panes of his face lit by natural daylight. He looked… softer, somehow. Cream-coated and tender. Somehow vulnerable in the light, exposed; it made her want to bundle him up in something equally soft and lick his vanilla skin. She swivelled around to lay her back on the grass by his legs, and her legs up the side of the wall next to his back, and now they could watch each other and daydream. 

  
  


It was a tiny crawling thing, at first - a little beetle, she thought. It crept along on the bricks of the wall, and she followed its zig-zaggy path. And then it began to change.

It grew larger, scaling up like a computer animation, from fingernail-sized to the length of her thumb. It had blue wings, she could see now, or maybe that was the shell over its wings, metallic and iridescent. As she hissed at Spike and they scrabbled back from the wall it began to uncurl two long antennae from the front; four, five, eventually fully six inches long, with feathery paintbrush tips. The hard wing casings lifted, and then transparent gossamer wings unfolded from beneath, and now she couldn't deny it: she recognised the thing. 

It lifted from the wall with a whirr of vibration, and took off up into the sky and over a building as Spike frowned after it. 

“Never seen one of those,” he said lightly.

“I have. I, umm, dreamed about them, after reading this book… but they weren't real.”

“Guess you were wrong,” he said. 

But no, she knew she couldn't be. There was something unnatural about the proportions of it, something of fantasy in the length of those antennae. Besides. “It grew. It was this big,” -she held up her fingers to show him- “and then it puffed up to that big. Just like in my dream.”

“Yeah?” he said, looking at her dubiously. And then dubiousness gave way to realisation. “ _ Oh. _ ”

“Yeah. I think… I dreamed it.”

He looked up at the empty blue sky. “Probably should have caught it then.” 

“Well gee, sue me for not being ready for giant dream-bugs when I'm wide awake.” She threw her hands up in sudden frustration, then crossed them over her chest and turned away. Not enough that she'd dumped her duty and the whole baby-slayer multitude off on everyone else, now she was unleashing monster insects on the citizens of LA.

“Been repressing something there, Slayer?” he said flatly. 

She opened her mouth to argue the point, but- “ _ Heads up, _ ” he said quickly, and started trying to grab a stone from the ground.

She shot her eyes skyward and spotted the dream-bug zig-zagging back through the sky above the neighbouring building and then over their lot. Without thinking, she grabbed a stone herself, took a split-second to aim, and threw it hard at the thing. 

Her aim was perfect, and the rock secure in her fingers before it sailed through the air - and through the bug. It pinged off the brickwork harmlessly as she ran back over what her eyes had seen; that definitely went  _ through.  _

“Ha,” said Spike, confirming it. “Only a dream, ain’t it? Wake up, then.”

_ I am awake  _ and  _ maybe this whole month  _ _ is _ _ a dream  _ and  _ how _ _?  _ flashed past, then she pointed her finger at it and shouted, “You’re not even real!” And then it was gone.

Unmarred blue sky, a lazy cricket chirping, Spike snickering. She lowered her arm. 

“We'll have to watch that,” he said, “I'm loathe to imagine what else your wandering brain could invent.”

Truth be told, so was she.  _ In that sleep of death, what dreams may come? _ “We should go back.”

He looked disappointed but nodded his assent without complaint. As they walked, she watched him from the corner of her eye. He was decidedly uncomfortable on the bright footpath, flicking his eyes around at every reflection, swagger too carefully affected. Yet when they crossed the last street before Wolfram and Hart he squinted up at it in weary resignation, and some of the uncomfortableness drained into tired apathy. She slowed to a stop, then ducked into the shadowed entrance stoop of the insurance building on the corner. 

“Smile, Spikey,” she said when he looked at her in question, “I thought we were supposed to be having fun today.” He grimaced. “Oh come on. There's got to be something distracting nearby. Wasn't there a bar over the road? Maybe it's open now.”

“What, so you can order a drink?” he asked. He lifted his brow at her, but there was interest, definite interest, which was much preferable to apathy. 

“We wouldn't have to order. We could just step into the kegs. Come on.” She dashed out and across the street before he could argue, and he caught up as she neared the bar that stood opposite the Wolfram and Hart building.

The door was closed and windowless, but the sound of music and the sandwich board outside proclaimed it open. She was about to step through - and risk scaring any patrons looking in its direction - when it was opened from the other side. The man holding it stopped automatically, stepping back to let them enter, then looked up at them in surprise. 

“What are you two doing here? I didn't know you could leave the building.”

“Neil,” she said. “Didn't know you could either.” He worked in the security office, overseeing a bank of screens, and they hadn't yet found the place without him. 

He chuckled. “Well, sometimes I get furlough for a quick beer. Are you coming in?”

They were hovering in the doorway. “Oh. Yes.” They stepped inside and scanned the room: Wolfram and Hart employees, beer aplenty, a TV showing ( _ chess? _ ), haze of smoke from cigarettes and the jagged sounds of tipsy conversation. The barman looked over cautiously, obviously judging her peasant blouse and butterfly jeans out of place amongst the uniformed workers and besuited lawyers. Or maybe it was for Spike at her shoulder, broadcasting non-conformism in every inch from his scuffed boots to the sneer that was bound to be decorating his face. Neil stepped over to the bar, pointed back at them, and told the man, “Employees, of Angel's. Won't cause trouble.”

“ _ Bloody aren't and will _ ,” Spike hissed quietly, and she jabbed her elbow at him.

“Shush. Let's… find seats.” Neil gave them a wave and headed for the door again, and they stalked their way through to an alcove at the back of the room. 

“Now what?” he asked.

_ Damnit, Spike.  _ He was the one who was supposed to make light of things, flip that quicksilver temperament and stir up a laugh. Morose Spike was disconcerting. “Stay there,” she said and went back to the bar. 

She returned followed by the barman carrying two beers, which he set on their table with a permanent-looking frown as she slid into the seat across the table. Spike arched his eyebrow at her again.

“We can pretend,” she said, “like a tea party.” 

“Had enough of those with Dru,” he sighed. 

“Did you wear a party hat? I always liked hats at my tea parties.”

“No. But… did wear a bonnet a few times.”

She snorted, and  _ finally _ he cracked a slight smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. “They're on Angel’s tab…” she told him. 

His turn to snort, then he shifted and resettled in his seat. “Alright, Slayer. We'll watch them go flat.” He forced a wider smile at her, and she tried to soften her own.

  
  


** x **

 

Slayer poked her tongue through the side of her glass and wiggled it in the beer, but the liquid didn't ripple. She cocked her head to the other side, glared at, and tried again. This time the surface of it jumped suddenly, and she jerked back, snapping her mouth shut and popping her eyes wide. She moved her tongue around inside her mouth, then poked it out and tried to feel it with her fingers - but of course the lack of touch to themselves made that pointless. She poked it at him instead and asked, “ith y ongue othay?” 

He snickered, then it turned into a proper laugh as her eyes narrowed and her tongue whipped back in. “Your tongue’s fine, Slayer,” he chuckled, and she grinned again.

“Made you laugh.” 

“You did.” She was trying so hard, and here he was being a demoralising git. He eyed her hand on the tabletop, then held his over it. She looked down at it and set her jaw determinedly, and he lowered his slowly until it touched lightly against her skin. Her hand was soft and smooth and  _ there _ , and maybe it wasn't warm anymore, but nothing else was either. 

Time stretched and narrowed. If this was all there was, he thought, we could do it forever. Fingerpads, palm, back of her hand. Let the rest of the world fade away. It wasn't though, and soon enough there'd be a distraction. So he brushed his thumb across the back of hers a final time, then pulled away before the rippling through could start. 

He searched for a distraction. They'd carefully avoided mention of her secret with Wes and his confession to Fred, but sooner or later something was going to prompt one of them, and they'd have to have it out. Later, let it be later. Locked in the belly of the beast as they were, they couldn't afford a fight. 

She found the distraction for him. “Is it… is it Halloween today?” 

She was looking past him, so he twisted to look over his shoulder and found the man in the next booth holding a newspaper in one hand as he tapped ash off his cigarette with the other.  _ Fuck, he'd kill for a smoke. Hell, he'd maim-with-intent just to smell one secondhand.  _ What was the question? Oh yes, the date. 31st of October, 2004. 

“But that's…” she said and then swallowed.

_ Five bloody months.  _ Felt true, somehow; paired with dates on wall calendars and the season outside, with Dawn well settled in her new school and the rest of the survivors drifting apart. But felt wrong, too; time had been strange, certainly, since coming here, but he'd have guessed they’d arrived a month ago at most. Where had they lost so much of it, and how had they failed to notice? Had it started slipping again once they'd found themselves secure in their ghosthood? But surely that was only days ago. Maybe it was earlier. Most of all, was this how ghosts faded away?

“We've gotta be more in the world,” he said to her urgently. “You’re right, we should be watching Angel more, work out what's the what, maybe find something to do…” What  _ could  _ they do? “We've got to pay more attention.”

“Let’s go,” she said, rising from the table swiftly.

  
  


** + **

 

It was late night - or early morning - when they stepped outside, making her quaver again at missing time. Was this even the same day they'd stepped outside of Wolfram and Hart on? Was the dream-bug this morning, or weeks ago? To Angel's floor then, and hoping someone was about. 

The elevator doors opened to blaring music and drunken chatter. Disco balls and strobing rainbow lights flashed over hundreds of (people?), while giant pinata-things hung from the landing. 

They froze in place, dumbfounded. “Are they… having a  _ party?”  _ she said. 

“I've changed my mind,” said Spike quickly, “We'll start paying attention tomorrow.”

He reached for the lift button again, but she stepped into his hand before he could concentrate enough to press it. “Come on, let's go see. It might be fun.”

“Oh no, you are off your flipping bird if you think I'm showing my face at some kinda twisted disco shindig. What self-respecting demon law firm hosts a party on Halloween, anyway--” 

He halted his ardent gesturing at the lobby beyond the lift doors to flip two fingers at a tall yellowish demon standing there, but the creature just blinked back passively. She ignored it.

“Yeah, yeah, demons don't do Halloween. But we're not. We're ghosts. Totally different.”

“Nuh-uh, Slayer. I'm going upstairs. Get out of the way.”

“Please, Spike?” she asked, holding her hands behind her back. “I'll dance with you.”

He looked at her and took a deep breath. Then let it out with a sigh, and she knew she had him. “I'm not dancing to this crap,” he said. “You'd better turn those charms on the DJ and see what else they've got.”

“ _ Yessir _ ,” she said, saluting him as she skipped out of the lift and off to find out. 

  
  


No sign of any of Angel's team around, so if she maybe hinted at orders from the boss-man to change the music, then no one was there to correct her.

The DJ looked back at her stonily when she asked whether he had anything ‘punk, but not all shouty’. She thought again. “Or maybe… something older, but not pop… British. That's it. What have you got that's outdated and British?” 

He sighed and dug around in his box of CDs, then held up a few choices. 

Stairway to Heaven? No way. Ditto Pink Floyd with their Comfortably Numb. Was there anything that wasn’t uncomfortably apt? Finally she jabbed her finger at Eric Clapton, and shimmied back to Spike as the opening strands of Layla rang out.

Dancing was… difficult. Somehow her rhythm wouldn't click; too much sensation missing from body and music, no blood pumping under her skin.  _ Just… have to adapt _ , she told herself, and when Spike dropped out to lean against the wall and watch her, she kept at it, determined to find some sort of flow again. 

  
  


** x **

 

“Take your coat off,” she said, “If I'm going to dance on my own, at least gimme something to look at.”

He shook his head, and her smile slid away in that all-too-familiar way it did whenever she felt she'd crossed too close to old wounds in this confusing new relationship. 

“It's not--” And now it was his turn to find the carpet suddenly fascinating. “I don’t want to lose it,” he admitted in a mumble.

She was quiet at that, until eventually he darted his eyes back up to find her watching him gently.

“You’re not going to forget what your coat feels like,” she said. “And if you do, I know every inch of it. But keep it on. You'll still be the best-looking man in the building.”

Some monstrosity of lumpy-fleshed oozing grey demon stumbled past them in an inebriated daze, and he arched an eyebrow at her. “You sure now?” 

“Reasonably,” she grinned, and stepped back to continue dancing. 

Her fluid rhythm of old wouldn't come, and now the frustration was showing; somehow this had turned from an attempt at light-hearted fun into something she had to perform perfectly. 

_ She tries so hard. _

He pulled the memory from one he'd once noticed on a shelf in Dawn’s room, and closed his eyes to concentrate fully. Opening them, he wasn't sure if he'd pulled it off, until she glanced his way and tripped to a sudden halt. She stepped over to him slowly, an ecstatic smile spreading all the way to her glittering eyes.

“ _ Spike _ , you're wearing a hat!” 

“At a party, ain’t I?” He smirked at her.

She stared hard at the top of his head for a moment, and then she too had a cardboard party hat fixed in place, the blue tinsel trim sparkling in the light of the disco ball. “Did I do it?” she asked.

“Reckon mine’s better,” he said cockily. “Come and dance some more, pet.” He led her back to the edge of the floor, and ignored the bloody awful club music to step to something long-forgotten from memory. He coaxed the steps into her, the two-four shuffle-and-turn of an ancient drawing room, and she mirrored him smoothly enough to soon start pushing for faster.

“What are we doing?” she giggled.

“Dancing,” he said, though it was nothing like, and turning more into some sort of playground game. 

“Like no one’s watching?”

“Can watch all they like. Screw their mortal eyeballs, Slayer. Ghosts gotta make their own fun.”

“Okay,” she laughed, and he sped up again. 

When the rest of the room abandoned the floor to stumble off into chairs and corners Layla came on again, and he sung it to her as she pirouetted beneath his arm.  _ Slay-er. Got me on my knees, Slayer… Let's make the best of this situation, before we finally go insane. _

Maybe they were two ignored ghosts ignoring their problems to play-act at stability, but when she was smiling at him like this - it no longer mattered. 

 

 


	6. The Cautionary Tale of Numero Cinco

 

 

** + **

 

By dawn the party had degraded to abandoned cups and a few slumbering bodies, and the music fell silent as the rainbow lights clicked off. They abandoned it in turn to find seats in the security office, Neil once again at his post.

On the bank of monitors Lorne was sleeping on the couch in Angel's office, while the big man himself sat behind in one of the sofa chairs, fingers laced in front of him as he stared out the window. Whether he was sleeping too or not she couldn't tell, but either way, it didn't look like a propitious time to try and approach him. 

From the camera over the main entrance she watched people arrive for work, dribbling in on reluctant feet and fumbling with their bags and cases. Were they always this unenthusiastic? Or was she reading too much into a workforce simply hungover and low on sleep after last night's escapade. She watched the time stamps on screen, reassured when they seemed to make sense, minutes ticking by in orderly fashion.

Late morning Lorne stretched and rose, said something to Angel, then left the building. Angel stretched, stood, then did a strange little upbeat jump-shake-thing as if he was excited to wake and greet the day. She stared at him in bewilderment as Spike snickered, “Haven't seen him do that this century.”

“What….”

“...did you just see? Great oaf himself trying to pretend he's looking forward to the day ahead. Don't worry, he'll return to the regularly scheduled brooding shortly. And three… two… there he goes.”

Angel walked behind his desk, glared at his chair, and then pressed a button on his phone with a surly frown. Out in the lobby Harmony twitched behind her desk, snatched up her phone, then slammed it back down and left for the top cat’s employee lounge.

“Well, he’s up. How are we doing this?” Spike asked.

“I think… I think I should go and see him. Alone.”  _ Please don't get all disgruntled.  _

“Probably best,” he admitted. “I'll watch from here, meet you here after?”

“Yep. Wish me luck.”

“I wish you stakes of corporeal wood to touch, slayer.” She rolled her eyes, but as she walked out he called after her, “Good luck, Buffy.”

  
  


He followed her route on the screens - a foggy patch of static that blurred and snowed each camera in turn. 

“Don't worry,” said Neil casually, “you always look like that. Plays merry hell with the permanent storage, too.”

_ Huh.  _ On the screen showing his office, Angel looked up as the static started crackling, then sunk back in his seat. 

“ _ Why dost thou interrupt my morning mope,”  _ said Neil snidely.

  
  


** + **

 

Angel looked like he wanted to put the desk between him and her, but after frowning in its direction he waved a tired hand at her and said, “Gunn peed on my chair. Strange night.”

She sat in the chair next to his. “So we heard.” He looked worried at that, so she added, “It's not full office gossip. Just amongst the security staff.”

He groaned and covered his face with his hands. 

“Angel,” she said quietly, “we can't keep drifting around uselessly. It's not… it's doing something to us. It's not right for me. And this place… it's doing something to you too. Talk to me?”

He was quiet long enough for her to suspect he was hoping she'd go just away. Indeed, that had seemed to be the vibe since she'd first popped out here. But as she was building up to  _ demand _ that he look at her, he started talking. 

“We're  _ all _ trapped here. I don't know what we're doing. I thought… we could make something good of it. Make a difference. And maybe we are. But… it's isolating. People don’t seem to matter anymore. To anyone.”

_ Well, that's grim.  _ “You matter to me,” she said. 

He looked at her sadly. “You’re a ghost.”

“Yeah, well, I'm a ghost that can do stuff.” She walked over to his desk, picked up a pen and held it in the air for several seconds before it fell to the floor. “Maybe not much stuff. But we can help. Need to. You've got to stop pushing us away.”

“You’re going to drop pens on the bad guys?” 

“Gunn seems to think they're effective.”

“Touche.” 

“So tell me where to point my pens?”

He sighed. “If you want to hang around more… I won't try to stop you. But I'm not having Spike in here.”

There was something nasty in the way he said Spike's name, and the touch of sympathy she'd felt at his despondency evaporated. “God, Angel, would you give it up? I love him. Get over it. We're all stuck here for the foreseeable, so the sooner you put on your big girl panties and let us start working together, the better. We'll be in here Monday morning when you do your weekly planning thingy, and I'll be slapping anyone who objects.”

  
  


** x **

 

Static on the screen doubled then swept from camera to camera, heading in his direction.    


“She looks pissed,” he remarked.

Neil sat forward. “Don't know that I've seen it go that bad before actually. Impressive temper she has.”

He smiled fondly. “That she does.” Still, hoped the brooding lump hadn't upset her. He went to wait in the hallway, and when she came stomping along cocked his head towards the guard’s cafeteria in suggestion. 

When they entered the place was empty, and she hesitated in the wall-doorway. 

“Put the TV on,” he said. “Can keep an eye on it for timekeeping.” 

“Good plan.” She reached for the switch, then twitched back as the screen flashed on. She reached out again slowly, and the screen flashed off when her finger was still a few inches away. “Check it out!” she said, excitement replacing the anger. “I'm remoting!” She pointed at it once more… and nothing happened. She stuck out her jaw and stabbed her finger forward angrily, and it flashed on again. “ _ That's right _ ,” she told it.

He flopped onto the couch and concentrated to get it to make a sound when he thumped the seat next to him. “Sidown, pet, before you blow a fuse. What'd Sir Broodsalot say to spark you up?” 

She sat with a huff. “He doesn't think we can do anything, and he's acting like a two-year-old who’s dropped his ice cream. I told him we'd be at the next Monday morning meeting, so we'd better make that. What day is it?” 

“Saturday, think. Alright, so what are we doing till then? Don't tell me you're going to bloody wait around patiently for him to tell you you're allowed to do your job.”

“My…” She gave him a wounded look. “I can't, Spike.” 

Oh no, no crying slayer on his watch. “Sure you can.” He lifted his hand to hover at the side of her face and spoke gently, “Buffy, luv, you're better than this. Maybe you can't do things the same way anymore; maybe it's going to take some hard work. Never known that to stop you if someone needed help. There’s a whole city worth of trouble out there, and I don't see the flash office crowd doing much about it. Let's go and find some evildoing to end.”

She looked back at him and took a couple of deep breaths. “No.  _ We're  _ better than this. Come on then, my ghosty champion. We'll go help the helpless.”

“That’s my girl.” She pulled on a smile at that, and it caught him too.

  
  


** + **

 

Pep-talked to eagerness, she bounced down to the main entrance and then turned to him. “We need a plan... what's say we head out at dusk, stay outdoors, and come back before daylight? I'm sure we can't fail to notice the sun coming up.”

He nodded. “You’re the boss. But come on, I've got a better one.” He led her out and across the street to the pub and hailed the barman. “Mate. We're gonna sit there,” -he pointed- “and you're going to come and kick us out at sundown. Capische?” 

The man gave him that perma-frown look, but nodded.

“Good. Make sure you do, elsewise you'll have angry ghosts.”

They took seats, and she grinned at him. “This is your better plan?”

“Well, yeah. Beats sitting around that place for another day. ‘Sides, strikes me as a good place to be listening. Tongues loosened etc.”

That was… actually a good point. The place seemed to be solely occupied by WR&H employees again - not many, at this hour on a post-party Saturday, but those that were here looked more casual than usual. 

She sat next to him this time, and for a few ( _ minutes! surely _ ) leaned her head against his shoulder. A man at the next table talked on his phone for a while, then hurried out, leaving his newspaper behind, and Spike got up and moved it to their table with a determined snatch and throw. They scanned the crime news - minimal, maybe the House of Evil suppressed it somehow - and she giggled at a photo of Lorne in the entertainment section, arm supporting a shy young tisher demon/actress at a  _ ‘ _ Costumed Cabaret _ ’ _ event. 

At dusk the barman slumped over and told them,  _ Sun’s down. Get out.  _ She stepped outside and breathed in the night air - only didn't - but,  _ stop it, _ she told herself,  _ you can do this. Your chest still moves, and it probably tastes like smog around here anyway.  _

They hunted the back alleys and delivery driveways around the clubzone, finding couples making out and hushed exchanges of goods for money, a woman sobbing into her phone about  _ cheating Rick! _ , a cluster of young men competing to see who could pee the highest. And no vampires. She ground her teeth in silent frustration. “They're here, I know they are. I just can't  _ feel  _ them.” 

“Still got eyes,” Spike said, but his optimism looked to be wearing thin too.

She stamped her foot and carried on walking. And around the next corner, they heard a scream.

“Still got ears too!” she yelled to Spike as they took off running. 

  
  


** x **

 

The two vamps were barely more than fledges, which was lucky because the fight was a train wreck at first. She clocked the one holding Miss Screamy to the wall as they tore into the alley, a good solid hit to the head, then took a hit in return from his partner, snarling as she fell halfway through the wall. He got one of his own in on the one that'd hit her, but then his foot went straight through when he tried to follow it up. She jabbed her fist through the first vamp several times without effect, spitting tacks in frustration while her opponent caught on and stopped trying to dodge. 

He took a few seconds to concentrate and visualise the satisfying crunch of fist to flesh, then swung a hit at vamp no.2. It connected, albeit weakly. Miss Screamy sunk to a huddle against the wall, looking more confused and terrified than hurt, and vamp no.1 sent a meaty fist through Buffy, making him stagger for balance before turning back to the girl.

“They're ghosts!” barked the second vamp to his partner. “They're flippen ghosts!” His face was grinning confidence as he turned his back on Spike.

Buffy hissed in a breath and held still for a second, then managed her own weak jab to try and distract the first one from grabbing the girl. “How the frick are we going to stake them?” she shouted. 

“Concentrate,” he yelled back as he launched another uselessly incorporeal flurry of hits, “pause and plan. Throw them into something?”

The first vamp watched her fist go through him again. And then the idiot started  _ laughing.  _

_ Should  _ _ not _ _ have done that, mate.  _ Buffy drew herself up in front of him with eyes that looked like they should have been able to burn him where he stood, and then she stuck her ghostly hand into his chest with a look of coldly lethal deliberateness. The vampire's eyes widened as his laughter cut off, then she was tearing her hand back out as he began to crumble to dust. 

“That works too,” Spike said, and if his voice wasn't quite steady, then that was only sensible really.

“Ghost  _ slayer,” _ she said to the remaining vampire, “and you're dust.”

It didn't have a chance to run; just stared back dumbly until she'd repeated the move. Christ, she was amazing. 

 

 

** + **

 

She went to brush the dust from her pants, then realised it hadn't touched her. Nifty. Spike was watching her with a look of awe, and she threw a grin at his (for once) silenced tongue. 

She offered a hand to the woman still crouched by the wall, then thought better of it and crouched next to her instead. “Are you okay?”

“What… what the hell was that? Were  _ those?  _ Are  _ you? _ ” she asked with increasing volume. 

Hmm. Spirited one. Good. “Vampires.” She pointed to herself, “Vampire slaying ghost,” and to Spike, “vampire ghost champion.” For once he didn’t pull that stigmatised face at the word, though perhaps his awe-stricken-ness was more responsible than any shift in feeling; if she’d had a stomach she was fairly certain she'd have felt the sudden need to empty it at the feeling of that dead heart in her semi-corporeal hand, and it must have looked almost as disturbing from his point of view. “Are you okay?” she asked the woman. “Not bleeding out somewhere under your clothes?”

“N- no, I'm fine--” she stammered, edging back along the wall towards the street. “But thank you!” she squeaked as she ran.

“You’re welcome!” she shouted after her. She turned to Spike as he came up beside her. “You were right. Thank you.” 

“Course I was right,” he said lightly, but something deeper and warmer was in the smile he gave her afterwards. “Onwards, then? Looking forward to trying that move myself.”

“Definitely. And I've got to work out how to summon the scythe.” She tried to take his hand, and when it went through, laughed it off and tried again. 

  
  


** x **

 

Sunrise Monday they took the lift up to Angel's floor. In the conference room Spike hopped up to sit on the end of the table in what was probably Angel's spot, but by the time anyone else arrived he'd got bored and relocated to the seat next to her.

Gunn arrived first, pausing in the doorway when he noticed them before smoothly continuing to a spot down the table and laying out his papers. Not his argument, not his problem; clever man. Wesley, Fred, Lorne, trickled in and took their cue from Gunn to give polite smiles and carry on. Fred claimed the seat on Buffy’s right with a comment about shifting the gender balance at last, and the others took up the opposite side of the table but didn't look particularly defensive about it. Then they all waited.

Angel came in waving a manila folder, already complaining, then stopped dead when he saw them. 

“No, no…” he started with a groan.

“Hi guys,” said Eve, catching up to Angel and taking a spot standing by the windows before turning back to him. “Can we get started then?” There was something snake-like more than Eden about that one - something of the cool-blooded predator watching knowingly through the branches as the naive creatures below stumbled towards their downfall. Still, on her own side put her not on Angel’s, and she obviously didn't object to their inclusion. 

Plans were made for the week ahead and events rehashed from the one before (though not, he noted with amusement, anything of Friday night's party). Possible uptick in zythorn demon activity on the north side of town? -  _ We can check that out,  _ said Buffy, but -  _ No, _ said Angel,  _ we have people for that. _ Ditto the reports of something going on at an abandoned cinema complex, and of ‘horror film sheep’  _ (?!) _ being sighted in a residential suburb.

“You've got a vamp problem,” she said finally, then rushed to continue before either Angel or Spike could grab that opening. “We've taken out five in the last two nights within a few blocks of here. How about we claim an office and focus on that? With everything available here we could deal with it in no time, then branch out.”

“You don't--” started Angel.

“Sorry,” said Wes, holding a hand up to pause Angel, “did you say you've  _ taken some out?” _

“Yep.” She tried to leave it at that smugly, but- yep, there she went: miming that wicked chest move and telling Wesley, “It's totally awesome!”

“I'm not giving you an office,” said Angel. “You don't work here.”

“Well, we're stuck here. May as well make the best of it and do some good where we can. And that'd be easier with an office.”

“Or we could work out of this one,” added Spike. “It's got the comfortable chairs and the ego-enhancing wall of manhood substitutes. Plenty of room for a couple more desks; I'll get our friends in maintenance to bring some up this afternoon.”

“You are not moving in to my office!” growled Angel. 

“Stop me,” he smirked. 

And then she played their trump card. “Next floor down. David Melton, language research, nice little corner office. Has a beer at the pub over the road every workday. Building a bomb in his apartment to take out this whole building. Plans on bringing it to work next week. We'll have his one.” She stood up. “Come on, Spike, let's go and tell him.”

He followed her out of the room backwards, grinning at Angel all the way.

  
  


** + **

 

David vanished and they moved in, and now messages came to their own phone and desk. Or would, were there any. 

A few days later she found herself alone in the elevator when it opened to let Angel in. She thought about hopping straight out again, but dammit, she was there first. 

He pressed a button and they stood awkwardly until he said quietly, “Buffy, what are you doing?” 

“I'm… catching the elevator. To see Fred. It, uh, kinda tends to upset people when we go straight through the floor. Caused a few coffee spills.”

“No, what are you doing with this whole thing? Patrolling? Looking for trouble? It's not your job anymore.”

“You think I should go off and live a normal ghostlife?” She huffed a sardonic almost-laugh. “I can still help people, Angel. That makes it my job.”

“They don't even know who you were, here. They don't know the name Buffy Summers, or remember all those times you saved the world. You're just that ghost who hangs around.”

“Who I  _ am _ , Angel. But it's not about making a name. The woman we saved on Saturday? I don't know hers. She doesn't know mine. But I know she made it out of that alleyway. Besides,” she added, “ _ he _ knows me.” She stepped through the side of the elevator and through several walls before he could respond.

  
  



	7. Lineage

 

 

** + **

 

“I've found dad.” 

_ Whose dad?  _ she thought first.  _ Are you adopting one?  _

“And he's flying back to LA to be married, next week. The secretary.”

_ Ohh.  _ _ Our _ _ dad.  _ ”That’s, umm, nice,” she said. 

Dawn snorted. “That’s about what I said. Anyway, he's sending me a ticket, and Xander’s offered to chaperone… I thought maybe I'd go?”  _ Permission?  _

“If that's what you… If you want to. Then you should go.”

“And I thought, maybe while I was in town…”

“I'd… we'd, love to see you, Dawnie. But not here. Don't come here. We could meet somewhere?”

“Okay. I'll make a plan.”   
  
  


_ She's cut her hair.  _ She'd expected it to be the same - longer, maybe, if she'd really thought about it - but Dawn’s long silky locks had been replaced by shoulder-length curls that made her look far too grown-up. 

“I wanted to bring you something,” Dawn said. “But I didn’t know what to get you.”

Buffy reached for one of the curls, but stopped short of touching these strange new things. “Your hair.”

Dawn shrugged self-consciously. “I had it done last week. Still feels a bit strange, if I’m honest. Do you, do you like it?”

“It’s lovely. Just very… grown up.”

Dawn shrugged again. “I am. Grown up. Seventeen now, remember?”

_ And I missed it. _ She felt like sinking under a table to get away from all this. She sat down hastily on one of the chairs at the small café Dawn had chosen.  _ Solid, be solid on the solid chair. Last thing we need is a scene.  _ “I'm sorry,” she said. 

“It's okay, Buffy. Can we-- can we just have coffee and idle chatter? I don't want to… it's okay.”  _ Can we just pretend, so we can enjoy this?  _

_ Please.  _ “Yes. Except, I can't do the drinking of the coffee. So order me something you like, and we'll swap cups when you've had yours.”

“Even better! I'll go and order.”

At the counter her sister stood tall, sure and confident as she reeled off a complicated drinks order, flirting lightly with the barista as she asked him to pick out the biggest slice of cake for her (please). She looked back and gave Buffy a wave as she waited, maybe checking she hadn't vanished, but there was no fear in it anymore. All together, she looked much more content than she had a year ago. Or the year before. Or the one before that.  _ And before that… she wasn't really there. God, Dawnie, I really did try. I'm so sorry.  _

She came back with the cake on a plate and two forks, then held both forks in one hand to eat. “So where's Spike?” she asked, shoving a mouthful in to give Buffy ample space to fill. 

“He'll be here. He wanted to give us some time first. Xander?”

“Ditto. He's in the car, I told him I'd text. So. Not enough info. How are things with you two? You never say on the phone.”

_ Heavy. Which makes exactly zero sense when we're weightless, but still. Laden, perhaps. Burdened.  _ “Good. It's… been difficult. With everything. But things are getting easier.” Patrolling was helping - the hours were filled now, and no longer vanishing into the ether. As long as they stayed alert. “We can hold hands sometimes,” she added with a shy smile, because oh, was it good to  _ touch,  _ however limited. This new relationship where hands came empty of weapons and were only made solid to hold each other made her feel like a little girl with her first blushing crush sometimes. “And…” - wary of sharing this, somehow, but this was Dawn - “we have a place we go sometimes, to sit in the sun. It's nice.”

“You're weird. Weirdo ghost sister.” She pointed one of her forks at Buffy, then stabbed it into the cake again.

“Well excuse me, green-ball-of-energy,” she teased, and Dawn grinned. 

Once the cake was safely devoured and the conversation had moved on to stupid jokes, Dawn sent a message to Xander and Spike slipped into the café after him. There was hushed discussion of the new council -  _ we're not supposed to tell you anything,  _ Xander said shamefully, as he told them everything. 

“It's alright,” she told them, “I get it. That place is not to be trusted.” She didn't ask  _ who  _ the specific orders come from; not sure which answer would be best. 

Spike fidgeted with things on the table, which lead to the specifics of incorporeal slaying, which saw Xander change the topic swiftly. Finally Dawn checked her phone and said, “We'd better go. Wedding’s this afternoon, then we fly back.”

_ How did you come out of everything so… stable? Did the monks know, somehow? Did they foresee something of this and add an extra dash of self-possession for young-adult-Dawn? Or is it the workings of life experience on Summers blood?  _ She reminds her of their mother now in some ways, studiously picking up and packing up and moving on when everything fell apart. 

“Say hi to-- nevermind.” No greetings from beyond the grave. “Have fun,” she told her instead. 

Goodbyes were awkward; hands waved lowly in lieu of hugs. Then they were gone.

  
  


She watched her feet as they walked back to WR&H, scuffing at small stones on the footpath and going through all of them. Halfway there she looked over at Spike, hands tight in his pockets and introspection-face in place. She stopped and waited for him to look up at her. 

“She was in that school,” she said quietly. “Just down from Anya.” She tried to touch her fingers to his chest, but with only her own flagging willpower this afternoon it wasn't happening. Or maybe he didn't want her to. She lowered her hand and spoke gently. “Thank you, Spike. What you did… there aren't words.” 

He didn't seem to have any either, so she pushed ahead and hoped he was hearing it this time. “I'm sorry we didn't make it out of there together. But I'm glad I'm here with you.”

He picked up the hand she'd dropped and kissed the back of it tenderly, then gave it a squeeze and set it back at her side. She gave him a smile that she hoped held more of her  _ thank you _ , and he smiled back softly. Then they carried on.

  
  


** x **

 

He waited at Eve's car, leaning on the rear door. “We know you're not on Angel’s side,” he murmured to her as she lifted her key, “and you don't strike me as the kind to play blind alter girl to higher powers. Clever, driving out past our boundaries each night when you leave here. How long’d you been doing that pointlessly before we thought to start following you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said cooly, then got in the car.

He popped into the passenger seat. “Give it over. Slayer’s on your tail, Eve, which means you're screwed. You want to be on the winning side, then you'd better give us something before it's too late to jump ship.”

“What makes you think I'm not?” 

He watched her narrowly as she pulled out of the building and headed for the closest edge of WR&H’s ring of territory. As they neared the border she looked at him and said, “You think Angel's going to champion her when he finds out that amulet can be broken?”

Before he could respond he was thumping into Angel's office floor again. He stood up slowly, and they stared daggers at each other for several long silent seconds before he blinked out to rejoin Buffy.

  
  


** + **

 

She waited until she heard Wesley hang up the phone and shuffle some things on his desk before stepping through the wall into his office, stopping across the room from him. “Hey, Wes,” she almost whispered. 

“Buffy.” The desk shuffling returned. “Can I… help you with something? Or if you've come to tell me how you killed your parents, as Angel did just now--”

“My mom died. I found her on the couch.” Wesley’s face paled slightly, and she hurried on before he could say something. “My father's an asshole. I did kill my mom's boyfriend, who turned out to be an evil robot, so there's that. But not what I came to say. Wesley… I didn't think much of you when we met. And I don't think you even saw me as me. You couldn't understand what it was like to have to make the choices I did. And I'm sorry you do now. But I know I can trust you to make them. You might only be watcher to an ex-slayer ghost, but you've been the best one I could have hoped for. I'm glad the evil robot council didn't get you.”

“Thank you, Buffy,” he said, and for a moment the disassociation seemed to clear as he looked at her. “I'm, um, I've been told to take some leave. I thought only at home, I'd still be reachable if you need me--”

“Get out of this place, Wes. Get out of this  _ city  _ if you can. Don't worry about us. We'll keep an eye on things here for you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go.” She cocked her head at him. “Do you wanna come watch some TV in our room before you leave? There's these Monty Python reruns on each night. The insanity seems fitting somehow.”

“You have a room?”

“Come on, I'll show you.”

Curiosity got him, and once she managed to get the lock to slide from inside the door he stepped into their sanctum and looked around in surprise. Spike had left the duvet cover alone for a change, and it glittered with tiny purple butterflies on a blue-sky background. The TV was oddly vivid, and the colours from a vase beside it seeped into the paint of the walls and the patterns of the carpet to give the whole room a softer pastel tone.

Spike sat on the bed with a bottle of Jack Daniels in hand, and waved it at Wes in greeting. “I'd offer you a drink, but…” He tossed the bottle at Wes, who threw his hands up to catch it as it faded away mid-air. Spike cocked a bottle of Jameson at him from the same hand he'd just thrown with. “All illusionary comfort. But isn't it always?”

“Indeed,” said Wesley. 

“The fridge!” she said. “It's full of those tiny bottles. You should take them, so Spike can stop sticking his head in there to stare at them all sadly.”

Spike gave her fake glare, then shifted over to make room for them. Wesley inspected the fridge and brought a handful of the tiny bottles with him to sit on one side of the bed. She extended a hand to the TV to raise the volume, forestalling the need to talk, and he looked at her curiously again. “Next week,” she said. “You promise to have a good break, and I'll show you a few tricks when you get back.” He nodded. 

Halfway through the first episode, he'd started snoring. 

 

 


	8. Destiny

 

 

 

**x**   


 

There was a flash, then he was blinking into an empty box.

“Yeah. Great.” He turned and strode off across the foyer, shortcutting through one of the architectural columns that split the space. 

Smacking  _ into  _ one of the architectural columns that split the space.

He lay on his back on the ground in stunned incomprehension, a thousand forgotten sensations of nerve endings set a-tingle by impact cacophoning through his brain. 

Sat up and felt something… wet, heavy on his top lip. Cupped a palm beneath his face and looked down as a single ruby drop fell through the air to land in the centre of it. 

He looked at the red, and he brought his tongue out to lick where it came from, and he rubbed the back of his other hand against the end of his nose, and then it had the red too. And a leg came walking past, and he grabbed the leg, and the man shrieked as he fell over and the leg was _hot_ and the red was wiping onto it and he knew. 

 

He was corporeal. 

  
  


He climbed to his feet, licking, licking his lip, his hand; slapping the column like a beloved horse and the foot of the man scrabbling away across the floor too. Phones were ringing everywhere, people shouting and rushing and jostling all around, someone bumping into him in passing and he grabbed them by the shoulders and, “Wes!”, it was  _ Wesley _ , and he was flesh and blood too, and hot and fragrant with a thousand scents. And Wesley’s mug sloshed with something dark that was some of the scents and he grabbed it and gulped at it and it was coffee, bitter black and gone-cold coffee and  _ god, it was heavenly _ .

And Wesley said something, but he ignored him and turned away to find a clear path for the stairs to go up and how did you even get to their room without going  _ through  _ things and maybe she'd be locked in when he got there but no, she was on the landing up above already, must have heard all the noise, and she dropped straight down through the floor to land in the foyer 

 

and his insides dropped through a floor too,

 

and she said,  _ Spike? _ with something quizzical on her face.

 

and he dropped the mug, and it went  _ crack. _

 

and he was solid.

 

But she was not.

  
  


So. There was a flash, then he was blinking and hollow.

  
  


She stared at the blood still seeping from his nose, then she reached for his chest with a wobbly hand. He wanted to dodge back, deny, pretend, but he could only twitch ineffectually as her hand came closer. Then it touched his chest, and  _ oh,  _ he could  _ feel  _ that soft weight of it properly, and something began seeping from her eyes.

She squealed then,  _ You're corporeal!, _ and threw herself on him in a bone-crushing hug. And for a long second he thought maybe he'd been wrong and she was solid too, but then her pressure vanished and she tumbled right through him to the floor behind. She sprang straight back up, undaunted, giggling and beaming at him.  _ How? _

_ I-- don't know… there was a box, in the mail…  _

Maybe… He ran back over to the reception desk and shouted over the noise of the phones,  _ Where! Where the fuck's that box?!  _ And the man tried to wave him away so he shoved the ringing phone from the desk to fly into the wall and there, there was the box still, so he picked it up and turned to her and waited. 

She peered inside. He opened and closed the lid a few times, but nothing flashed. Tried to pass it to her and she dropped it. She wasn't looking at the box, she was still looking at him,  _ beaming  _ at him, but he hadn't done anything. She said,

_ We'd better find Fred _ .

So he picked up his box and held it carefully and they went to find Fred.

  
  


** + **

 

Spike was  _ solid  _ and  _ real  _ and- (well, undead, she supposed, but in the  _ proper _ sense now). He looked shaky and scattered and oh-so-confused… and  _ solid.  _ Eventually it sunk in what the box-shoving had been about, and she squeaked some strange high-pitched snap of a laugh,  _ I don't care, you idiot, stop worrying.  _

But oh, she was worried now; if corporeality came in a box, then how reliable was it? Would it fade away with the morning sun? Was he safe? Where was Fred?

Phones were screaming everywhere and everyone was stomping around, so she nudged him and coaxed him and lead him for the stairwell, trying to watch out. He seemed so vulnerable suddenly, so knockable and breakable and hurtable, and she felt like shouting back at the people and phones and feet to  _ back off!  _ And it struck her that it was so much like those first moments in this place all those months ago that she made the strange laugh-sound again. 

Fred was on her way out of the lab, feet tap-tapping fast towards Angel's office, but she froze to silence when Buffy’s words sunk in, and reached out to touch Spike in confirmation.  _ Don't touch!  _ Buffy wanted to scream, but stamped on the green-eyed monster because this was Fred and she was sweet and kind and would help them and Spike was letting her. 

“I have to tell Angel- not this- the computers, there's a problem, it's affecting the whole office-” She took a breath. “People are in danger.” And this they understood, so they followed, and waited their turn.

  
  


_ Prophecy  _ said Eve, and  _ harbinger.  _ Decamp to Wesley’s office but where was he, didn't he just come back this morning?  _ He's here somewhere,  _ said Spike,  _ I took his coffee just after… just before.  _ But Wes nowhere to be found, so moving on to his department. 

_ Champion  _ said Eve, and Buffy’s worry grew, because he should not (must not) belong to the Powers That Be. But Angel, everyone thought it  _ must _ be Angel, and there's torment to be imbibed so let Angel stand in this time please and she'll keep her champion safe right here. 

So Angel went looking for torment and Fred ran to sedate Michael from accounts and Wesley was still nowhere to be found, and she took Spike's hand - and that seemed easier to do right now - and they went to their room.

  
  


** x **

 

They sat on the bed and stillness came to let everything catch up and the waves smooth out. 

Her face worried still; knew that look, too, silly bint fussing over him. “Sorry,” he said. “Was just a shock, is all.” He threw her an attempt at a wry grin and added, “And a smack in the face with one of those columns.” If only it'd been her fist.

“Is it okay?” she asked. And when that must have looked too hard to answer, “Your nose.”

“Oh,” he chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, Slayer, it's fine.” He touched it with his fingers and  _ oh  _ it felt good, bruised and swollen and  _ flesh _ , that he had to prod at it some more. 

“It is okay,” she said, and smiled again. “You’re really real.” Conviction growing; willing it so. “Lie down,” she said, “that mess downstairs is going to take a while, and you look tired.”

And oh, he was, that's what it was, had forgotten that this feeling was  _ tired  _ and that  _ lie down  _ was to solve it. So he lay down, and she lay next to him, and said,  _ hush, have a nap. I'll watch over you.  _ And there was something in the words, some puzzlingly tangible weight, but  _ tired  _ was heavy too so he:  _ slept. _

  
  


** + **

 

She couldn't stop looking at him; he was so  _ there. _ The blanket was all creased and pushed down where he lay on it, and a loose fibre on it was moving with his soft breathing. She ached to try and hug him to her again as she had in the lobby ( _ God, he'd felt so magnificently solid!) - _ but didn't want to wake him. She contented her hands instead with carefully smoothing a fold in his coat, smiling to herself at the realness of it, too, and the following thought of,  _ I guess he -was- right about keeping it on. _

Her fingers slipped through the leather eventually, and she pulled them away and rolled onto her back with a quiet sigh. She'd tried to nudge him to positivity, but unless that empty cardboard box held something she couldn't see, then his thoughts would soon lead him down the same trail hers had. 

An amulet meant for  _ one _ to wear. Quite how she'd squeezed inside it too was a topic of watcherly conjecture, but she knew - knew how Spike always held her. (and thank god he had, because if this had been tough, then the alternative didn't bear thinking on.)

An amulet that had arrived in the mail. A box that had arrived in the mail. Timing predestined, or had they tipped someone's hand when they increased their efforts with Eve? Irrelevant, in the end. A box for  _ one  _ to open. Either someone was hoping to profit from her continued incorporeality… or it couldn't be done. Either way, she'd better get used to this.

Beside her, he stirred slightly and mumbled something, and she rolled back to face him.  _ Shh,  _ she said again,  _ I’m still here, Spike. I won't leave you. _ Promise to it, and he settled. 

  
  


Wesley came and called softly from the hall -  _ Buffy? Are you here?  _ She looked through the wall to check, then opened the door for him and Fred and their bottles of blood held forth like a wine offering. Put a finger to her lips,  _ shush, he is  _ _ sleeping _ _.  _ But  _ look _ , look at my beautiful corporeal vampire. They looked, and their fingers twitched, but they retreated to the hallway quietly. Going home now, they said, if she doesn't need them yet? Office madness over with and Wesley still off-balance from whoever had knocked him over the head. Call if you need anything else? 

She would, she told them, but what could she need. We'll see you tomorrow then. Locked the door up carefully again and returned to watching him  _ sleep.  _

  
  


He blinked awake and she watched his face flicker from confusion to recall to confusion again.  _ Hey _ , she whispered, and -  _ Hey _ he whispered back. He reached for her hand on the blanket, and she made it be there, his too, - then remembered, and just made hers. He stroked it and said, “You feel more-- more solid, too.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s easier now, somehow.”

“Maybe we can will you to permanence,” he said, and if anyone could it was him, but the world didn't work like that, so she smiled at the not-joke. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked. The question had too many blind paths, so she tried again, “Are you hungry? Fred brought blood.”

“What time is it?” he asked. “Or, um, what day? How long have I been asleep.”

She went to look out of the window. “Midday-ish. Must be the next day. The others would have come back if it was longer.”

He stretched and climbed to his feet, rubbing at his eyes - face - hair - arms. Stopped suddenly and looked sheepish. “Sorry.” 

“It’s exciting,” she said, only that wasn’t the right word, really, and seconds ticked.

He pressed his lips together, then shook it aside and switched to looking in the fridge. Took out a bottle and went to drink straight from it.

“I can warm it up,” she said. “There’s the microwave.” Could she, though? Things were feeling spacy again. 

“Nah,” he said, and began to drink. He closed his eyes in swooning rapture at the taste of it, while the rest of his body cringed away from her shamefully at the unwitting admission of his pleasure. When half the bottle had gone, he stopped and stared down at it in his hand. 

She went to stand by him. “Spike. Enjoy it. Let me be vicarious.” 

He tilted his head and considered her for a minute, and she tried to say it with her eyes.  _ Please, be happy for you too. _

“Vicarious bloodlust coming right up,” he said with a small grin, and drank the rest.

  
  


** x **

 

Lump in his throat where relief and anguish warred; gulp and wash both away with the blood. As he put the empty bottle back in the fridge she went to sit on the windowsill in her accustomed place, but stopped short and remained standing instead; did ghostly companions to the corporeal not perch halfway through panes of glass? “Shall we make our debut?” he asked. “I'm sure Fred’s itching to wave things at me.”

“Yep!” she exclaimed, and opened the door ahead of him determinedly. 

Alright. If that's how they were playing this.

  
  


“We've gotta get out of here,” she whispered after Fred had done her thing and Wesley had channelled his inner Giles to scribble notes. “To the paddock?” 

He almost nodded, but no, it was daytime. Sun time. 

Her face sunk. “To our office. We must go to be at our office now.”

He tried to think of a retort for that one, but maybe it was better left. They went to their office. 

“We have to get out of here,” she said again as soon as the door closed. “You've got to get away from Wolfram and Hart properly I mean. It's not safe anymore. Not that it ever was, but why are we still here? This place has been getting to us and it's not safe now.” She sped up with each sentence, emphasising their--  _ her _ , ability to speak without inhaling.

“Slow down,” he told her. “We will. We’ll find somewhere, Slayer. Soon as the sun’s down.” It was suddenly striking him too - why  _ were  _ they still here? How had they become so comfortable in these artificial halls which he now realised stunk of antiseptic covering something rotting and vile. Felt like they'd been drifting blindly through fog until an unexpected gap in the weather had revealed the horror of the landscape that surrounded them. When did they stop digging for answers? Come to think, when was the last time they even saw Angel?

“We can’t stay here,” she said, meaning the room, and already twitching her ears around. “Security office? We can see if anyone’s coming from there.” 

“I’m not some…” -but no, she was upset and getting more so. Let her do her thing and put him somewhere safe like a helpless little boy and she’d soon be embarrassed about it, but arguing now would be futile. He sighed. “Come on then.”

  
  


“So,” he said when they finally stepped outside, “where do you wanna live, Slayer mine?”

She was quiet - too quiet - wasn't that serious a consideration, surely. She started walking, so he dropped in beside her and nattered about views and parking and space for a flock of pet flamingos and maybe toucans until she looked over and said, “Flamingos?” with her face adorably confused. 

She stopped walking and turned to face him. “Look, Spike. You should leave LA.” 

Ah. This. Been looming all day since Wesley’s spellwork had confirmed: he was no longer bound to the amulet. 

And she was. 

“Don't be daft,” he told her. “Not leaving you stuck here, Slayer.” 

“Spike… be rational. Nothing can hurt me. And there's something building in that place. I know you can feel it. I want you far away when it blows.”

He got right in her face to speak in a hissing growl carrying all the threat he could inject. “Don't. Be. Daft.” Then stepped back and aside to continue walking. “So, where do you want us to live?”

  
  


He held the  _ For Lease _ section of the paper, she sprang the locks, and they browsed apartments in the dark. 

“Wait-- how’re we paying?” she asked suddenly. “We can't put our secret hideout from Wolfram and Hart on Wolfram and Hart’s tab.” 

“You could start robbing banks?” 

She rolled her eyes. “We’ll figure something out. But maybe we should look for somewhere that’ll take cash.”

He tossed the paper in the next bin. “Got an idea. That club with the goldfish on the sign, think it's Lewe St? Place bordering its alleyway’s had a sign up for yonks. Bet they wouldn't say no if we flashed them some.” 

  
  


The apartment next to the club was small and sparse - bed, TV, fridge, microwave, bathroom, all draped in cobwebs. It was also underground, had a reinforced steel door, no neighbours, and no traffic cams near the entrance. He looked at her and waited. 

“Good,” she said, “this is good. I mean, if you…?”

“It’s good, Buffy.” He flopped onto the bed, and she looked at it hesitantly before sitting down an inch above it. He chuckled. “Lie down, silly. You're not gonna get dirty.” She lay down. 

  
  


******

_ Buffy sat in the plush chair before Angel's desk and said, “But you haven't got the right jewellery, Angel. It was meant to be a claddagh collar, like mine, see?” _

_ Spike saw, and it was indeed - a silver collar around her neck, with two silver hands holding a bleeding heart before her throat.  _

_ Angel spoke now, and Spike knelt down beside Buffy’s chair to listen politely. “I like the chains. You wouldn't understand. They're my destiny.”  _

_ Buffy seemed to grow smaller with each word, or the chair larger, until she sat swinging her legs high above the ground. Angel stood and came around the desk, frowning down at her. “You were always much too large,” he said. He took the sides of the silver collar and tugged, but it must have shrunk with her and wouldn't slide off. “Still much too large.” She shrank further then, to the size of a newborn kitten, and Angel picked her up like a doll in one meaty hand.  _

_ From the carpet on the left of her chair, Spike growled, deep and low in his throat. “Quiet boy,” chuckled Angel, “where are your manners?”  _

_ Spike dropped his lips back over the sides of his fangs and silenced the growl, and Angel rubbed his wolfish muzzle affectionately. Spike wagged his tail and looked down at the chain around his neck admiringly.  _

_ “Here you go, then,” said Angel.  _

_ Angel held Buffy down before him, and Spike gently pinched the heart from her collar in his teeth. He pulled it free and tried to bite into it, and it turned to dust on his tongue. But of course; it was his after all.  _

_ Angel looked at Buffy’s collar, where the heart sat again. “That was never going to work, was it? It’s like your bottles of whiskey, always comes back.” _   
  


He startled awake, throwing his hands to his properly-shaped body and his eyes to Buffy’s clean and bare neck as she hovered over him; must have woken him up.

“What was it?” she asked.

“Dream. Just a weird dream.” She looked sceptical. “I had a tail,” he added, “and I tried to eat my heart to put it back in my chest.” He licked his lips.

“Oh gross, Spike,” she said, scrunching up her face and sitting back. “Just,  _ ick.” _

He grinned.

 


	9. Harm's Way

 

 

  
  


** x **

 

The first time they went patrolling again, Spike forgot to dodge. 

A slow and predictable opening swing of a fist caught him straight in the eye and hard enough to make him hit the ground. She swore at him viciously as she dealt with their opponents (and promised he'd be next), and back on his feet, he swore at her harshly in turn. Swearing gave way to pointed attacks until she finally stabbed a shout right to the core:

“I think you wish you were still a ghost!” 

“I think you wish I was too!”

She crumpled, raised fists turning to hands wrapped in around her torso as he blinked and closed his mouth too late. “No, Spike. God.” Her voice came out shaky and small. “Can we just-- can we stop?” She sat down and dropped her face into her hands. 

He padded over to squat down next to her, tilting his head to catch her eyes through her hands. His voice was hushed to a murmured seriousness now. “I didn't mean that. Words came out wrong.”

She sighed. “Neither did I.” She slid her hands back into her hair to look at him properly. “It's just… I'm scared, okay? Terrified. I love you, you stupid un-ghosty vampire.”

He touched his lips to her forehead in the lightest whispered brush of a kiss, and she closed her eyes to receive it. “I love you too, Buffy. Forget the rest.”

They were still together in the dim alleyway as the traffic passed and the city flowed around them. Then he rose and held out a hand, and she took it carefully to climb to her feet. “Come on then,” she said, “the night is young, and you need practice.”

“That I do.” He gave her an embarrassed smile, and she smiled back, and they continued hunting. 

  
  


** x **

 

They brainstormed. His incapacity made him grind his teeth, but she was right - she’d be returning to Wolfram and Hart alone. That records room was the biggest worry - for what could keep ghosts out could surely also keep them in - but of course, what was hidden from ghostly access had to be what they most needed to see. So at dawn, she dressed herself in a two-piece business suit like a professional fairy, kissed him on the cheek and said, “Don’t forget the dry cleaning, house-husband mine.”

“Go on,” he told her, shoving her with a shoulder and grinning when she shoved back. “And don't you bloody get lost.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She flicked him a salute and then stepped through the wall.

  
  


** + **

 

And stopped, dithering in the alley. The door was two inches of steel, and no one knew where they were, but…. She shook her head, smoothed her jacket and faded out to materialise at the end of the block; it was easier than walking away.

  
  


She blink-jumped from the footpath outside WR&H to the middle of Wes’ office. 

“Don't tell me,” he said, holding up a hand. She hadn't been going to and gave him a nod of appreciation for the forestalling of awkwardness. “You've found somewhere safe, though?” he had to ask.

“I think so. Safer, anyway.”

“The precious weight of the immortal coil.”

She gave him a purposefully blank look. “How're things here?”

“Angel's relieved, I think.”

“Brooding?”

“Indeed. Plus this thing with the prophecy… it's muddled him.”

“What, the ‘vampire with a soul gets to be human again’? Who would even want that? Well, I guess he does. But why?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the couch.

He shrugged. “It's recognition. The sparkle that shows you the glass has been cleaned.”

_ Purifying, cleansing, possibly scrubbing bubbles.  _ “Surprised he didn't try to insist on wearing that amulet for it, then.” Though she wasn't really; he'd known it was dangerous - perhaps more than he'd told her - and Angel was never one to put himself at real risk without something to gain for himself. “I don’t think Angel could have made it do its thing though. Spike… you should have seen him, Wes. He shone…” 

He waved a hand in front of her in gentle tease, and she came back to the now. “Oh. Sorry. Anyway, just thought I should drop by the office to say hi.”

“Right,” he said, stretching the word out. “Buffy, I’m still looking. I'm sure there's a way-”

“No you're not.”

He was quiet. “No, I'm not. But I'm still looking.”

“Thanks. If there is, you'll find it.”

  
  


She loitered invisibly behind the barrier to Records, studying the way people were occasionally granted access with swipe cards.  _ Good idea? Or terrible? _ Good, she decided, and the next time the lock on the waist-high gate beeped and clicked she blink-jumped to the furthest point inside that she could see. It worked. 

It was hard to browse whilst remaining invisible, so she started from the furthest point and worked carefully forwards. She found Angel's contract accepting the role as CEO, but it said nothing about the amulet. Or why he'd signed it. There had to be something more.  _ Damn lawyers and their sneaky lawyer-ness.  _ She remembered the one who had handled her mother's will, a politely greedy little man who seemed to be appraising her for sale at their first meeting.  _ Bingo.  _ There was always money involved. 

In the accounting files, she found it: a truly mind-boggling sum paid to one _ ‘Cyvus Vail, Mentacidist,’ _ on the date of Angel’s contract. She waited for the next gate opening, blinked through, then back up to Wesley’s office. 

“Buffy.” He looked pleased to see her. Then regarded her steadily and carefully asked, “I wondered if you would like to join me for drinks later? At my home…. Truth is I've been finding it rather lonely.”

_ Could have thought up a better excuse for a ghost, Wes.  _ “Sure. Sounds fun.”

He nodded with a fake little smile.

“Wesley,” she asked, “what’s a mentacidist?”

  
  


** x **

 

Sun-sense was back and thus was timekeeping; she’d been gone too long before it had moved 5 degrees across the sky. Patience though, patience - she could more than handle herself and wouldn’t need to; he wasn’t some dependent sad sap and didn’t own her. 

Sundown they’d agreed on though, so when he sensed the burning ball make touch with the horizon he felt justified in snarking.  _ Where the bloody fuck are you, Buffy? Hurry your arse up.  _

She blinked into the room a second later, wobble-stumbling almost to her knees on the thin carpet right in front of him. Looked at him and said, “Wha… what did you just do?”

“I… Nothing. I don't know.” He truly didn't. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah… yes. Felt a bit like when we hit the border, but different. You don't think…” 

But no, Wesley had said she was still bound to Wolfram and Hart. They couldn't be this lucky. “I think maybe… I might have called you. Told you to get- to come here.” Could she be summoned by name like some common haunt? Could anyone do this to her?

“Wesley! I was in his office- he didn't do anything - but he wants to see us at his place. We can ask him about this, too.”

“Tonight?”

“I didn't get that far. What time is it?”

“Sunset. You were about to be late.”

She looked surprised, but answered smoothly. “Well, I wasn't. Tonight, then? We'd better give him more time to get there though.”

“We'll take the long way.”

  
  


Watcher chucked him a beer as they snuck into his apartment, cold and glass-clinky and wonderfully redolent on opening. Man was a bleeding god among men. 

“Mentacide,” he said next, and the beer was put down. “On the day Angel signed on to Wolfram and Hart. I think they've done something to him. Or… he's done something to us.”

“What is it?” Buffy asked.

“Screwing with your mind,” Spike told her before Wes could turn it into a paper on the subject. “Changing your personality, inserting ideas. Making you forget. Creating false memories.”

“Oh.”

Yep. “Must be ways you can detect it?” he asked Wesley. 

“I'm looking into it.”

“But that's not why you wanted us here,” Buffy said.

“No. I've… this is a long shot. Probably a waste of time. But I think it's worth trying.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the amulet on its chain. “If Spike's no longer held by this, perhaps he can claim it. I think you should attempt to leave with it.”

“Don't touch it!” she shouted at Spike, then stopped.

“It should be perfectly safe,” Wesley said. “Whatever it did is done, and there's no army facing us here.”

“Except the one made of lawyers,” she retorted. “Have you been carrying that around in your pocket?” 

“I didn't know what else to do with it.”

Brave man. “Don't worry,” Spike told her, “any  _ hint  _ of a tingle from it and I'll be fleeing like a goat from water.” He took the amulet from Wes and dropped the chain over his head before he could change his mind. “See? Nothing.” Only screaming nerves. 

“We'll take my car,” said Wesley. 

  
  


** + **

 

She hit the floor of Angel's office hard. Sucked in a pseudo-breath and started getting up, but suddenly it was all too much. She sank back to sit on the carpet and buried her face in her knees as she sobbed. The office was empty thankfully, dim and quiet, so she gave up any pretence of self-possession and let it come. There was hollowness where her lungs should be heaving for air and mistiness where she should be hugging herself tight, and the tears vanished when they touched her jeans. What was even the point of crying anymore. 

She swiped ineffectually at her cheeks with her palms as she stood, then scoffed a bitter little laugh and willed her face to dryness and perfect makeup instead. He wouldn't even be able to smell the evidence. 

When she reached the street, Wesley’s vehicle was just turning into it; she must have taken longer than she thought. The car pulled over, and she waved and smiled at it as she approached, but he'd jumped out before it finished moving and ran over to meet her. He stood between her and the car, smiling that glad-to-find-you smile with glistening eyes. She smiled back painfully, and when he went to say something shook her head slightly and said,  _ don't,  _ and the smile got closer to another sob. He covered her with his arms, and for a long moment she did nothing but press against him and will it so. Then she pulled back and said,  _ okay,  _ and they got in the car. 

  
  


“I'm going to see Vail,” she said in the morning. “We have to find out what he's done.” Before Wesley tries to.

“He's a sorcerer.”

“I know.”

“Diplomacy?”

“That’s the idea.”

He snorted. “Good luck.”

“I can do diplomacy!” she snapped. “I'm the diplomiest of diplomacers. You just watch.” 

“If you say so,” he chuckled. 

  
  


** x **

 

She came home staring at the ground, and he bit his tongue as long as he could. She sat on the bed and he said, “So?”

“Angel has a son.”

“What do you mean?”  _ Details, Slayer. _ Sci-fi robot clone, or has soul-boy turned one?

“With Darla. He had a son with Darla, and Vail’s contract was to create a set of memories of a normal stable life for him. And remove him from everyone else’s memories. There might have been more, I don’t know…. He gave me what suited for his ends.”

“How…“ Irrelevant. “And the CEO’s chair was the price?” Suddenly Angel's tortured cross-bearing was starting to make sense. 

“Yep. Guess he finally worked out how to make someone live that normal life in the suburbs he's so keen on.”

They sat considering this. 

“We have to get them out of there,” she said. “Fred, Wesley, Lorne… Gunn. They're being nibbled up.”

“We have to get  _ you  _ out of there.” 

“Yeah, well….” 

  
  


** + **

 

She raised the subject once more. “You should go. This… I could be here for years waiting on Wolfram and Hart. I can keep looking on my own.”

“What happened to not letting me go?”

“This is different.”

“Nuh-uh. You're not getting away from me that easy, pet. Less you're sick of me now we're not glued together? In which case I'll have to start looking for a second Los Angeles apartment.” He looked at her with a joking smile, but his eyes couldn't hide their niggling fear. “Know I can't do much,” he mumbled. 

“I don’t want you to go,” she said. 

“That’s that then.”

She dropped it.

 


	10. Soul Purpose

 

  
  


** + **

 

Time passed, and a new equilibrium of comfort was found. 

On Christmas eve she hung mistletoe and holly leaves, conjured snow on the carpet and a tree in the corner; ghosts of Christmas past. They watched cheesy family films about saving Santa and  _ believing!, _ and Spike lit spice-scented candles that she imagined smelling. She called England, Rome, Africa, and tried not to kill the Christmas spirit there. 

At midnight she took him outside and pointed to an envelope hidden in the alleyway - _I couldn't make it go through the door._ He pulled out the polaroid of them sitting in the bar together - herself in her favourite dress with her hair styled perfectly for the camera, him unaware in his black t-shirt and smiling across the table at her. Thanks, Neil. Spike stared at it in silence. She twisted her fingers together and shuffled. “Sorry. I wanted to get you something proper, but… everything was heavy.” 

He looked up with wet eyes and held a finger to her lips. “Hush. It's perfect. Thank you.” He put it in his wallet carefully, then took her hand. “Come on. Got you something too. It's not as perfect… just come on.”

He pulled a box from the closet. “You un-sneaky vampire,” she grinned, “I could have found that.”

“Didn't though, did ya?” He winked.

The lid was closed with a loosely tied ribbon, and with a light tug it slipped free.

“I know it's not the same. Couldn't get one that was.”

She concentrated carefully and picked up the blue soft-toy pig. “No. It is perfect. It shouldn't be the same. Thank you. I'll call him… Mr Blordo. Because he's blue.” She squeezed the pig to her for a second, then sat him on the bed. “Thank you. Hey, I'm a ghost with a possession now.”

He snickered, whether at that or Blordo she didn't know, and they returned to the TV.

 

**. **

 

It was in the half-state between wake and sleep that he was easiest to reach, and so these became the times she loved best. 

He slept naked on top of the blankets to offer her unimpeded access, and once her initial shyness had been melted away by smug smiles and gentle teasing, she could spend hours watching him in unashamed voyeurism. It was the little details - the shape of each one of his long graceful fingers; the smooth surface of his nails. The spiralling paths of the print on each fingertip. 

  
  


She ran a finger across his sleeping skin,  _ softly, softly,  _ tracing the contours of his chest, the palm-shaped curving of muscle in front of his shoulder, the bend of his knee. She curled across the top of the pillows to stroke the escaping curls over his forehead and imagined curling them further with her fingers, winding them all into little spirals as physical evidence of her existence. But his lips moved then, a smile starting to form before he breathed in through his nose and the smile faded. 

(She'd asked him once, sure she could pull it off if she knew what to aim for.  
__ \- What should I smell like?  
\- Sunshine, and puffy clouds. Warmth of your smile. Salt on the breeze. A bumblebee on a wild daisy. And something else, something more, something... just Buffy.  
\- Those aren't smells.  
\- They are. They're your smell.  
Unsaid: and now it's gone.)

She stroked his hair again, and the smile returned.  _ Tickles,  _ he mumbled, so she did it once more before bending close to his ear.  _ Don't open your eyes,  _ she whispered,  _ don't think. Feel.  _ Then she uncoiled herself from the pillows and drifted down the length of his body, letting her nipples brush against a shoulder, his chest; fingers fluttering butterfly-light down the line of his hip to stroke the soft brown curls below as she curled herself in between his legs. She pressed her lips to the inside of his thigh, trailing tender little kisses up it in a slow line as her fingers moved from their teasing circles to brush up along the length of his cock. 

He stretched back like a great lithesome jungle cat, nudging his eager cock into her hand as she wrapped her palm tight around it. She slid her hand ever so slowly all the way up and back down the hard length of him, eyes on his face to watch the way his lip quivered as he snatched for a breath.  _ Gods, you're so warm,  _ he whispered, and she smiled to herself as she murmured back,  _ hush, dream it. Help it be. _

She rolled her fingers around him, _ careful, careful _ , have to get the transition right here: move from the edge of dream to the euphoric state of high arousal without brushing through the intangibleness of tangible reality. It was already building in her though - had been all day, really - the swirling flow of whatever she was pulling together that felt like blood running hot and the hungry throbbing beat of  _ want. _

She pressed a final tiny kiss to the juncture of his thigh, then ran her tongue across it and felt him tremble with tickle and anticipation. She licked her tongue over her teeth and felt their promise, then lunged for him, biting sharp and fierce on the soft and perfect skin there. 

He stiffened with a strangled growl, then threw reason and caution aside to dive for her. The feeling from him hit first; a tidal wave of single-minded willpower that screamed,  _ want, need,  _ and crashed into her like a physical blow to make her fully physical to meet him. He slammed into her a split-second later and they tumbled from bed to floor unnoticed as fingers clawed at each other.

He bit her in return, human teeth crushing skin on her shoulder as she wrapped her legs around his back to pull him ever closer,  _ in, be inside of me, touch every part of me,  _ and then with a thrust he was and released her shoulder enough to rasp out,  _ Fuck, Buffy--  _ before it turned into a ragged growl and, god, he was so hard and firm, inside of her and on top of her and where one hand had caught her wrist and twisted it up above her head, bruisingly hard, and all she could manage in reply was a breathless mewl of desperate greedy pleasure that he would know meant,  _ Fuck me, now. _

He smashed his lips into hers as he pulled back to drive into her again, tongues forceful together as he thrust in and out of her, both of them frenetic in a crazed rush of lust and need,  _ god, need you, love you, so much _ , and she couldn't tell anymore who said what or if they said it together but the ghost magic said both or maybe this was all her power from the strength of what she felt for him. And they should slow down, draw it out, but what was time beyond each single moment and for this one they were nothing but this desperate passion and  _ fuck, Spike, oh fuck--,  _ and she was already climaxing, muscles clenching around his cock and milking at him as he gave in too with a gasp of her name and everything turned to star-splintered bliss.

  
  


** x **

 

Afterglow was holding, just holding each other. Her claws on his back sheathed now but no further away for it, pressing him to every inch of her flushed skin that she could. This. This was what life- unlife- ghostlife was for. 

Then the warmth began to fade, and he rolled them over on the carpet so that she lay on his chest, and stroked her until her weight vanished. But it was okay. They could do it again. 

 

Useful ghost tricks, +10,000

  
  


** + **

 

He mumbled something in a dream, and she leaned over to touch her lips to his head, and images came. 

In The Magic Box, everyone wore baseball caps and held big books in their hands, and she looked for him but spotted herself instead. The other her was sitting on the table, swinging her legs, and a ray of light was falling from a skylight to surround her in dust motes and yellow. Sunny-Buffy stopped to swallow something before saying,  _ we have to eat it all,  _ matter-of-fact and cheery, then took another bite out of her book like it was a sandwich. Buffy raised her own sandwich-book, and looked at her hands, and realised whose they were - and jerked back from the bed in their apartment as full realisation hit.

“Sorry!” she squealed, waking him up. “I didn't mean to!”

“Didn't mean to what?”

“The sandwich-books. I saw them.” 

He frowned. “How?” 

She told him, and he frowned more. 

“Keep out of my head, Slayer,” he said as he stood and stretched and turned away to the bench. “It's not a pretty place.”

“I'm sorry,” she said in a sad little voice. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	11. Damage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> { bring tissues }

 

 

 

** % **

 

Angel returned from his insane-slayer retrieval mission empty-handed and grumping about being double-crossed by Andrew ( _ Andrew! Of all people).  _ But an Andrew backed by a unit of slayers had been too much for him to ride over. “He's right,” Wesley told him, “she's one of theirs. They'll take care of her.” Would they, though? Certainly seemed to have forgotten the other slayer lost in LA. 

Wesley visited the asylum the girl had broken out of, collecting her files and the session recordings, her drawings, a tattered scrap of well-worn fabric she'd apparently been fond of rubbing. Boxed them all up and looked at Andrew’s card before dialling Rupert Giles instead.  _ Shipping, courier, yes, to council headquarters please.  _ Hurrying to try and end the call before Wesley could take it somewhere uncomfortable. Wesley’s voice clipped and cold as he said goodbye. 

He wondered again what had gone down between everyone back in Sunnydale; Buffy had been so  _ close  _ with Giles back in his own hellmouth days. Seemed that impenetrable bond was breakable after all.

He was still sitting behind his phone when Fred came in, and so lost in trails of bitter thought that he had to ask her to repeat herself, sure he'd misunderstood.

“I said, come and have a drink with me. You look like you need one. And I need some dinner.”

Drinking turned to laughing together on a dance floor until - full of alcohol-induced bravado - he tugged her to him and pressed his lips to hers. A cold bucket of instant sobriety hit him as he realised what he'd just done, and he started to stammer an apology before she pulled his face back down to hers and silenced it. Delicate little fingers wound around the back of his neck as she kissed him hungrily, and he let go of sense and melted into her. That led to a taxi and key-fumbling and his bed, where he ‘shagged her right soundly’, as Spike would say.

Morning bought a whole dump truck of that chilling sobriety and a freezing in place as she slumbered on beside him. Slip from bed and room so she could compose herself in private before leaving? Or would that leave her feeling unwanted and unappreciated? In the end, he feigned sleep with locked muscles until, miracle of miracles, she rolled over onto him and kissed him on the nose. “I  _ knew  _ we should be better friends,” she giggled. 

Shagging was out now as he made love to her properly, revelling in every soft moan and breathy whimper. When they finally emerged from bed the world had utterly changed, everything lighter and brighter as though they'd metamorphosed to glittering butterflies inside their cocoon. 

He cooked breakfast and made tea and they filled and overflowed themselves with silliness and giggles, and ignored the fact that they were late for work. Had to leave eventually of course, but that was okay too because she wanted him to drive her, chauffeur, chaperone, and wouldn’t it be fun, he should get a silly hat to drive in. And after, afterwards, they would go to her apartment, because she wanted to show him her view and her things and introduce him to her bed.

  
  


** + **

 

As the winter deepened it became apparent that perhaps she could not, in fact, be here for years. 

Andrew found them patrolling the old fairground, and jibber-jabbered as he raced up on puppy feet.

“I  _ knew  _ you were still all here!” he shrieked to Buffy. “Everyone said you'd-- I kept the faith.”

Spike caught him by the front of his jacket, picking him up two-handed to slam up against the nearest wall. “ _ What  _ does everyone say?” 

“Just-- just, you know, that you would have gone away. Out of town. Taken a vacation.”

“Put him down,” said Buffy, then blocked him in on the other side in case he felt like splitting. “What does everyone say?” she asked. “Spill, before I use my ghost-powers on your brain.”

Andrew sighed. “ _ They _ told me you'd have started fading away. That ghosts don't… last, somehow, in objects. But I know you're not a ghost! And see, I was right.”

He wasn't though. 

She kept her eyes firmly on Andrew as Spike hauled him away from the wall again and brushed the back of his coat off roughly. 

“So what're you doing here then?” he asked. 

“I was dispatched on a sacred mission to collect an errant young slayer and bring her home to the safe heart of the Council of the Slayers of the Vampyrs. Then I, um, thought I'd stay an extra day and see if I could find you. And I did!” 

She looked at Spike.  _ Trust him? _

He shrugged.  _ May as well.  _

“Come on, Andrew,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere to talk.”

  
  


** x **

 

In the demon bar on Achter Street she laid out the cold facts for Andrew: she was fading. What had been easy back when that box had flashed was becoming harder day by day; a creeping downward spiral that had started out deceptively flat but seemed to be accelerating steadily towards a final tailspin. 

He'd hoped for new knowledge from the boy - just what  _ did _ he know of ghosts in objects? But it became apparent that all anyone knew was what he'd already told them:  _ They don't last. Tend to… fade away. Giles says… it's just the way of things. _

Spike tuned out of the conversation as she asked after her absent friends, sister, the council; vaguely watched the shame shadowing Andrew’s face as he tried to make it sound like they still thought of her in present tense. He turned an ear to the jukebox and let it smother the boy’s white lies.

“Keep in touch,” Andrew said before leaving. “Here's my office phone, cellphone, address, email….” He put a hand on Spike's shoulder and the other near Buffy’s, drew himself up and said, “Keep the faith. Until we meet again, Sensei.”

  
  


They'd visited every mystic or mystically-inclined being they could find who wasn't in WR&H’s pocket, and some that were. Wesley had tried a few things with incense and talismans; Fred replotted her blueprints from the first attempt and researched alternative parts. Nothing worked. And the spiral gained speed.

He bit his tongue on his vague ideas about Oracles and Powers and offerings, but she saw straight through him. No, she said, just,  _ No.  _ I'll not let you. His concession was reluctant, so she added appeal of her own:  _ Please, Spike. I couldn’t live like that. Let me choose for myself. If you can't stay… I'll understand.  _ He nodded and let the idea go, but not her.

He thought about widening the search, of moving out beyond the city borders at night, but she was transparent half the time now, a girl made of gossamer and wishes, and he was loath to look away for fear of losing her for good.

He woke one evening with her hand pressed into his, the sensation of it falling away as rapidly as he became aware. Was that the last time? When was the last time he felt the brush of her hair, the touch of her lips? How could he not have realised that was it in those moments, so he could treasure them all the more? 

He thought these things and her face became woeful. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, “for this. But I can't regret what we've had here. And I still wouldn't leave you there.”

“Neither can I. Don't let go, Slayer. You promised.”

“I won't. I didn't follow you all the way through that amulet just to get lost now. So even if you can't see me, don't go thinking I'm not still with you somehow. Wherever you go.” Odd weight to the words again - something sworn and sealed.

She'd tried to raise the last point before - he should leave this city if she did.  _ No,  _ he'd said,  _ and that's  _ _ my _ _ choice. Besides, someone's gotta look out for the good citizens of LA.  _ They were doing good work here, vamps now rare in the areas they patrolled, muggings and late-night robberies plummeting. People going home to their beddy-bye with their necks intact. Often surprising him with the feeling that rose as they thanked him, the peculiar mix of both unworthiness and pride that made him embarrassed. But it felt good. 

She nodded, and they did their best to focus on holding on to each smile.

 


	12. A Hole in the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to move this episode up a few spaces, but we're still shooting for all 22. And a happy ending.
> 
> Lyrics belong to Roger Waters, full song here... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FrOQC-zEog

 

 

** + **

 

Wesley’s voice came through as a whisper in the corner of her ear, and then a tug in her middle.  _ “Buffy. I need your help. If you're out there, come to me. I command thee.” _

She could have ignored him, let it filter through her like the sweep of a hand through water, but something echoed:  _ I need your help.  _

He cried out to her again, and this time the metaphysical tugging was gone but his voice sliced through her with pain.  _ “Please, god, it's Fred…” _

She didn’t want to leave Spike, and she didn’t want to go back to that place. But, it was Fred. It was Fred, so what else could she do. 

  
  


Wesley was in a strange bedroom; Fred’s, she realised. He lay on the bed with his arms around her shaking little frame and murmured soft little lies to her -  _ you'll be okay. It's okay. Try to rest.  _

Salt rubbed from his voice to her pain and she wanted to sit down and sob; the world was too cruel a place. But no, she couldn't sit back and watch this helplessly. She wasn't useless yet.

_ Willow?  _ she called into the ether.  _ Um, Will? Come in? Please hear me. Go and meditate and tune in. Ouija board maybe? Or is that just movies?  _

_ We need you, Willow. My friend is sick.  _

_ Please.  _

Wesley’s cell phone rang. It was Willow. 

She curled up on the bed next to Fred as Wes took the call outside. 

“Hey, Buffy,” said Fred through closed eyes.

_ \- Hey _ .

“I'm sorry, I can't--” She tried to push herself up on shaking arms.

_ \- Shush. Relax. Willow will… she'll know what to do.  _

Fred nodded, and gritted her teeth against the shaking, and didn't dare remind them that Willow had utterly failed to help Buffy herself. 

Information filled in as Wesley spoke into his phone;  _ demon… infecting her… hollowing her out.  _

_ \- I'm hollow,  _ she told Fred,  _ we can be a team. _

Wesley continued,  _ ancient sarcophagus… escaped from where it was stored… the demon essence held sleeping inside was able to touch her and awaken. _

Wesley snapped his phone shut and strode back over with something akin to evangelical hope on his face. “We have to go,” he said to Fred, “I know what to do.” He wrapped the blanket around Fred and picked her up in his arms, and she made a small bundle there. He took his keys from the dresser and paused looking at a soft toy rabbit there, then grabbed it too and tucked it into the Fred-bundle.

  
  


At Wolfram and Hart they entered the lab alone, and he stopped, staring at the stone sarcophagus with deadly hate. He looked around for a place to set Fred down, but there was nothing, so he placed her carefully on the floor. The lid came off the box, and inside was a cold stone hollow that hummed with power. Wesley shrugged off his jacket and put it at one end for a pillow, then he lifted Fred inside it with her blanket and her rabbit. 

Buffy looked away, studying something on a far desk intently as tears fell and promises were made. Then the lid slid onto the box again, and Wesley ran to find Angel and his jet. 

She drifted through the side of the box, and found space to lie next to Fred. 

“Hey, Buffy,” she said again. 

_ \- Hey. _

“I'm scared,” she whispered. 

_ \- Me too.  _

“You can share Feigenbaum with me.” Fred lifted the rabbit weakly.

_ \- Thanks. I woke up trapped in a box once. I had to punch my way out, and I thought I'd suffocate before I could. But I got out. So will you. I didn't have a rabbit… I have a blue pig now. His name is Mr Blordo.  _

Fred giggled, then she yawned, and Buffy yawned too. “Don't you fall asleep too,” Fred said. 

She felt as though she could, here; nestle down and sleep at last. Things were becoming leaden and blurry. 

\-  _ I won't,  _ she told Fred.  _ I have to get back to him.  _

“That’s right,” Fred yawned, and then she slept. 

  
  
  


** + **

 

They trailed Lorne to the karaoke bar where he sometimes took a turn on the piano, and Spike watched as he drew out his final song before slowly closing the lid on the keys. Finally he looked over and gave Spike a reluctant nod, then slid himself across the piano seat and patted the space next to him for her to sit. “You can see me?” she asked; no one but Spike had lately.

He shook his head in a ‘maybe’ gesture. “I can see your aura. That's why I don't want to read Blondie here. Well, that, and the other. But since you're here now, have a seat.”

Spike flicked through the options, then the Pink Floyd she’d avoided at Halloween came back to haunt her. He let the music float out alone as he held the mic, and she thought maybe he'd changed his mind; maybe it was better not to know after all. But then he picked it up and sung down to the stage floor, “ _ Can you show me where it hurts?” _

His voice was the soft rich rumble she loved, but with the edges roughened and torn and breaking her heart.

__“There is no pain, you are receding  
A distant ship smoke on the horizon  
You are only coming through in waves  
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying

_ “When I was a child I had a fever _ _   
_ _ My hands felt just like two balloons _ _   
_ __ Now I've got that feeling once again… 

_ “...This is not how I am _

_ “I have become comfortably numb.” _

He set the microphone back in its stand before the music finished, and she had to go to stand by him, her lonely aching vampire. She reached out to cup his cheek, or try to, and he turned into her palm and pressed his lips to the centre of it gently.  _ There. This moment when we touched _ .  _ Never forget it. _

Lorne watched them and sighed, and rubbed his forehead, and tossed back his drink, then spoke tiredly. “You'll know what to do, kids. I can't tell you anything new.”

  
  


** x **

 

In the morning, she was gone.

  
  
  


 

 


	13. You're Welcome

 

 

 

%

 

Lindsey checked his hair in front of the mirror, then gave himself a wink. “Today's the day,” he told his reflection. 

Eve watched him from the bed as she slipped the strap through its buckle on her stiletto and glanced over her stockings once more. “I still don't like it,” she told him. “Letting vision-girl rush us. Are you  _ sure  _ this thing in the basement can take out Angel?” 

“Certain. I've waited long enough.  _ We've  _ waited long enough. Today, he goes down. Then you can be  _ my  _ liaison to the big cats.” He looked over at her with an eager smile. “You know your job.”

She did. And it would be so easy now. Freddiekins in her box at the well, and about as likely to emerge as Buffy was to breathe again. Wesley at her side, and who knew or cared when he'd return, because it wouldn't be today. Lorne had been her biggest concern all along, but he seemed to be gone now - unsighted at the office since that box left, last seen in LA the following night when he'd hung up his hat at the karaoke bar. That only left Gunn, and she had just the ticket of influence there, in the shape of his hidden involvement with what had happened to Fred. She'd point him towards the head doctor on a fruitless search for any way to atone for what he'd (unknowingly) done. Then she’d meet up with Lindsey after he took care of Angel, and they could look to the future at last.

  
  


Everything had been simple enough when she'd first arrived in LA. Hook Angel, drag him under the bow of the great W, R, and H. Watch him fall. File reports. Enjoy her new wardrobe. 

But then… there'd been him. Lindsey Macdonald, leaning on a bar with his cowboy boots and rippling mane like the cover boy for a bodice ripper romance novel (and look - he'd ripped the top two buttons off his  _ bodice _ already, letting her glimpse his garishly tattooed chest beneath). He'd looked at her and grinned with a flash of something daring and fixated, and she’d looked at him and laughed behind her mask. 

He'd sent her a drink, _for_ _my future liaison,_ then followed it over to say, “You look like a smart girl. Let's talk business.”

And why not have fun while she gathered tidbits from this outside player? She  _ was _ essentially human, after all; womanly parts in her perfect silk panties that made their presence known when he leaned past her to flag the barman. A rush of blood southwards and a flip-flop-thump in her belly because really, he did smell  _ delicious,  _ and she'd decided: she would have him while she worked, cocky thing that he was.

So he'd taken her home to his place and proved himself both practised and oddly considerate between the sheets, and in the morning he'd snuck out and brought back fresh croissants and decent espresso. And she'd thought, well, I didn't learn much last night, better stay another day. 

As she’d got to know him she recognised the mask on him too, the little boy’s supervillain cape in the earring and the bracelet as he lurked, sharp-eyed and intent, hungering underneath. He was nothing, but in his mind he was greater than all, with a fierce desire to see it so.

Somewhere along the way collecting useful information had turned into helping him fine-tune his plans to topple Angel, physical relief had turned into something tender on both sides, and when it was time for declarations to be made and sides to be chosen, she'd forgotten her game and said,  _ I love you.  _

Bad, bad,  _ bad _ idea, this falling in love; the Senior Partners that were her creators would make her pay if they knew. But she would roll the dice and take what came. Because what good was immortal life if it wasn't yours to live?

She worried his wasn’t, sometimes, tied down to this vendetta against Angel as it was. Tried to raise suggestions,  _ Maybe we should run away together, forget Angel and Senior Partners altogether?  _ Build a new life somewhere, away from it all; he certainly had the ability to hide them for good. But no, he would never be content without finishing this thing. So she helped him scheme, and spied on Angel, and looked forward to the day it would finally be over with and they could get on with life. Today.

Lindsey put an arm around her waist and nuzzle-kissed her on the ear as he said goodbye, but she could see his mind was elsewhere, playing out the trailer for his big moment in - synchronise watches - ninety minutes and counting. He grabbed his keys, she picked up hers, then with a grin he was off, striding to his car with that mane rippling in the morning sun, earring glinting, not looking back.

It was the last time she saw him.

  
  


She'd got Gunn out of the way easily enough, cleared the building ahead of the alarm that emptied it of the rest of the staff, and grabbed a table in the bar across the road to wait. The bad feeling she'd had all day grew with the minutes, but she refused to let it get to her. Lindsey was strong - much stronger than Angel now, thanks to his skill with magic and time spent training. Determined, focused. Qualities she admired. 

Fixated, and  _ too _ daring. The ones that worried her. 

She’d known it in her bones long hours ago, but still she sat there. He'd be so disappointed if he burst in to announce his victory and she wasn't there to stand and clap. She felt like she'd been turned to stone, frozen back in the time when he'd called her from inside WR&H to let her know it was all on. The news was made concrete by the evening staff entering the bar: Lindsey was dead.

  
  


A sort of icy fury began to build as she listened to them discuss the gossip. Angel had killed him. Stabbed him through with a sword. Angel had permeated their life, and now he had destroyed it.

Angel had to pay.

  
  


First stop was a visit to Cyvus Vail, Mentacidist. Flashed her credentials as Liaison to the Senior Partners, ordered him to perform an undoing on his work from the previous May. Watched in silence as he spun his fingers and released the mental block on every memory he'd concealed: Wesley’s misguided betrayal of Angel. Angel's attempt to kill him for it. Connor’s years in a hell dimension. A destroyed Connor wiring explosives to himself, Cordelia, and a group of bystanders, and preparing to end it all. When Vail was done she nodded cooly and moved on.

She stepped into Wolfram and Hart with her head high and eyes straight ahead, and ran into no one on her way to Wesley’s office. In the deepest corner of the safe she found the amulet, stashed hastily when he'd flown out of LA alongside Fred. She replaced it with a note filling him in on Gunn’s dirty secret. 

She left the building before calling Angel, unsure how much he suspected. “It's Spike,” she told him, “He's been working with Lindsey to take you down. He's expecting to meet up with him at the Greenwood Cemetery in half an hour to enact the second part of his plan.”

Finally, she headed for a single-room basement apartment next door to a club. Tears might have helped her case here, she knew, but she couldn't dare let herself go there. Feelings were for mortals, and she was not one. Not now.

The vampire who opened the door looked awful, eyes bloodshot and utterly drained of everything. He hung off the side of the door as if he needed its support to stay upright, and stared straight through her as he waited for her to say something. Or go away. She worried he'd been drinking, was too drunk maybe to do much damage to Angel, but no, he didn’t smell like it. Just looked… defeated. 

“It's the amulet,” she told him, “Gunn’s found something on it. It can’t be bought, only won in battle. Angel's taking it to Greenwood Cemetery to destroy for good before you find out.”

Something sparked in those dead eyes then, and he pulled himself off the side of the door to stand upright. 

She twirled her keys on her finger and added, “It's not in my interests for him to succeed. In anything.”

He stepped outside, and she pulled the door closed for him. 

 


	14. Why We Fight

 

 

 

** x **

 

As she drove, Eve reached into her purse and pulled out a stake, offering it to him handle first. 

“We playing for keeps then?” he asked her, suspicious. Creepy bint was being much too helpful. 

“He is. The partners have had enough.”

Emotionlessness of her voice was putting him on edge. But then, he’d been twitchy all week, desperately jumping at every flicker of light, things going strange from lack of sleep. Worse out here now with the city lights, headlights, all flashing past. He tucked the stake into his boot and told her to drive faster.

“What's his problem with you, anyway?” Eve asked. “It can't all be about some girl.”

  
  


**********

First, Drusilla. 

Assumed it was just her, to begin with. Poeticism in it of course; the tortured visionary, the disconnect of one who walks in other worlds. But no poeticism in her as she thrashed on the bed screaming of holes in her head. 

He pinned her to it and snarled in her face, for he had come to know what she required. A hand on her throat and one up her dress and fangs spitting vitriol until she pulled back one delicately boned hand and slapped him with it. Head whipping sideways and cheek opening in a bloody gash and her chasing it with a punch to his chest and kick to the floor. Then she was on him, raking flesh to bleeding strips as she tore at him, swore at him, wore at him, and he mustn't try to comfort her yet but catch her, cage her, hold her down. Pain making him hard with her writhing now against him and sing-songing his name,  _ Willy-silly-billy,  _ and there would be rutting and bruises and more bloodletting, but then, then she'd let him hold her and have him drop the fangs to murmur soft things, and she would calm and come through the pain. Always wanted him gentle underneath, Dru did, wanted him to pass up the fistfight and buy her new teacups instead. A plaything for her to break in turn, turn this way, turn that.

And knowing all the while, as he’d now learnt,  _ Angelus did this to her. _ Carved her up inside until everything got muddled. Angelus who would laugh at these turns and cuff her away - for pain and insanity were what they were about, weren't they, bleeding vampires for christ’s sake. Should sit back and enjoy the show, boy. Angelus grabbing Dru and smacking her to sit at his feet, telling Spike, you've gotta be harder with her. Too fucken soft, you are. It makes me sick. What the hell’s wrong with you? 

She was his destiny, he told Angelus. His dark princess, his eternal love. 

Angelus’ mocking laughter rang as he told him,  _ She's not your anything.  _

 

**********

  
  


Eve pulled over outside the small cemetery, and he leapt out, nostrils flaring and senses reaching out for any sign of Grandsire Asshole. A few seconds later a tinted black sedan pulled into the parking lot on the far side, and he ran to meet it there before Angel could get onto the sacred ground inside the cemetery walls where the amulet was vulnerable.

Angel took two big strides away from his car, then settled his feet into a ready stance to meet him, grim-faced and solid. Spike didn't slow, momentum building as he bolted over the knee-breaker fence into the lot and ducked under Angel's slow swing to dive into him full-bodied and slam his knee up into Angel's groin. His sudden ferocity must have surprised Angel - hell, it surprised him - and Angel went down with a grunt of expelled breath. Spike swung one fist into his face, then Angel got an elbow in front of him and threw him off to crash into the side of the shiny black car with a screech of bending metal. Angel followed him and swung a boot towards his stomach, but he rolled away with a bark of bitter laughter and sprung to his feet again. “Come on, old man,” he jeered at him. “The easy life's made you sluggish.”

“There's nothing easy about it,” Angel swore, then ploughed his fists at him in quick succession, the first skimming off but the second smashing solidly into his jaw. There was an almost endearing familiarity to the feel of it, the well-known (though not lately) dull - _ thud- _ of those bricks-wrapped-in-meat that the wanker called hands. 

Spike grabbed him by his prissy haircut and headbutted him in the face, and they both recoiled for a moment. “Thought the Partner’s Champion would fight better than this,” he taunted. 

Angel sneered. “You wouldn't know. You might have brokered some dodgy deal to get yourself a soul,  _ William _ , but you’re just not champion material. You'll never be like me.”

“Damn straight, fucker.” He dove at him again. 

  
  
  


**********

Then, there was Buffy. 

Beneath him on the floor of the crypt because she wouldn't go near the bed, wouldn't do this there, oh no. Grazing the bare skin of her back on the uneven stone floor as she squeezed her eyes shut and told him, “ _ Harder, Spike. Make it hurt. Make me bleed.”  _ Love was pain, wasn't it; he'd told her that, and Angel had taught it. She’d have to admit the truth of his soon. 

Tilting her head up and away to bare her neck and spurn him as she spurred him on, heels digging into the base of his spine. Her hands loose by her sides because she didn't want to show ownership of this, wanted to be taken and battered and broken and made to  _ feel _ it. 

Slapping his hand over her neck to cover it,  _ should put that away, luv, big bad vampire here.  _

Her arching into his hand and clamping her muscles down on his cock as she growled, “ _ Do it, Spike. Crush it.” _

Him faltering and game face melting away, because it wasn't a game, not really. Everything still for a moment as a tear rolled over her nose, then she smacked him in the face and off of her. Scrambled to her feet and grabbed bits of clothing, had to stop at the door to pull her shirt on. Hissed at him as she did, “ _ Angel said you were dangerous.”  _

“Yeah, well, told me you were his  _ destiny _ . Right after he fled for LA. Reckon he wants you celibate and suffering until he decides it's time to swing by for another round of ‘we-mustn’t’s.”

“Fuck you.”

**********

 

 

Angel might have been slow, but he knew how to use his weight, and he had endurance. When Spike hit the ground this time he barely got his feet up fast enough to kick Angel away as he tried to dive on top of him. Spike shook his head, once, twice, then swept his hand across his eye to try and clear the blood from it before he swung himself up again. 

“Looking wobbly there,” Angel said.

“Not looking so good yourself, mate. No, wait, you were always this dense, weren't you?”

They traded several more blows, then Angel let himself take a hit in order to catch hold of Spike’s forearm. With a roar of angry frustration Angel lifted him by it and pivoted, swinging Spike from his feet to slam into the side of the car again. 

Pain exploded out from his ribs as they introduced themselves to the wing mirror and it to the doorframe, and for a moment all he could do was struggle to gasp back enough of a breath to try and shove the pain under control somewhere as he lay on the concrete. He wanted to - needed to - dig at Angel for trashing his own car, play to his strengths in jeering and taunting the idiot into lashing out blindly, but breathing felt stupidly more important right now. Didn’t know how much more of this he could take if Angel kept hitting like a freight train. 

Angel frowned down at him and took a step closer. “Had enough?” he growled, malice in his tone. “You know you can’t win this.”

For a moment he wanted to accept it. Whisper,  _ Yes. Had enough of it all.  _ Curl up and stay here. But,  _ we’re better than this, _ and they were, she’d said so. He was. “No,” he spat back, “Just getting started.”

“You should have left town,” Angel growled. 

Spike snickered as he stumbled back up and advanced on him again, trying to cover which side he was favouring. “Can't stand me being here, can you? Showing you up in your own backyard. Showing everyone just how useless you really are. Do I shame you, Angelus? Does it burn to have your deficiency shoved in your face?” 

Angel hauled back a fist and slammed it into his head again, and Spike slugged him in the kidneys as he fell and rolled clear.

“I chose this fight, Angel. Not because it's my bleeding destiny, or someone shoved a soul up my arse.”

“No, because you were always chasing my leftovers.” Angel booted him in the shin with the words and he felt something crack, but the pain was smothered by his rage.

“She’s not your anything,” he roared, and leapt up again. His fist sent Angel clear across the lot to slam into the parking sign, and he stalked after him and stood straddling him to grab the front of his shirt. He brought his face up to Angel's and hissed, “There are no bleeding _ destinies _ . We make our own choices. This soul you hate? I bloody well chose it. Earned it.” He smashed Angel's head back into the signpost. “You'll never be anything but a puppet to your sadistic masters.” He punched Angel again, but he'd stopped resisting and lay back to take it.  _ Don't accidentally dust him wearing it, for fuck's sake.  _ “Where's the amulet, Angel?” He didn't answer, so Spike smashed him in the face again. “ _ Where's Buffy?”  _ he screamed at him. 

Angel's swollen face showed nothing but dumb confusion until eventually he mustered his two brain cells together and asked, “ _ The  _ amulet? ...Wesley had it. What… why?” 

The hot-blooded rage chilled to ice water in his veins, and he turned his head slowly to where Eve stood on the cemetery lawn. She stared back, cold and snake-like, the amulet dangling on its chain from one finger. 

Their eyes locked for one endless second, then he reached into his boot for the stake she'd given him. He paused with his fingers wrapped around the hilt, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he murmured with a pang of regret. Then he whipped it out and slammed it up into Angel's chest with his eyes fixed on Eve. 

“There,” he said into the silence of dustfall. “It’s done.”

“It is,” she agreed. 

  
Then she swung the amulet into the side of the nearest headstone. 

  
The crystal flashed blue and gold as it shattered, and his scream of Buffy’s name seemed to split his head into shattered pieces with it.

Eve lobbed the rest of the amulet over to him, then stalked off without a backwards glance. 

  
  
  


 


	15. Smile Time

 

 

 

_ \- Get up, Spike.  _ It drifted through the fog of pain inside his head and almost made him smile. Merciful, of his subconsciousness, to sound like her now. Or maybe not, as it told him again,  _ Get up. _

_ \- Can't,  _ he told it. -  _ Go away, brain.  _

_ \- You have to.  _

_ \- I can't, luv. I'm too tired… hurts too much. God, it's too much. You're asking too much.  _

_ \- You can, Spike. You have to. They're going to come for you. _

Trying to think, but nothing coming clear.  _ \- Who? _

_ \- The senior partners. You've killed their golden boy. _

He lifted one hand and flapped it back on the grass.  _ Who cares.  _

_ \- I do.  _ It got sterner,  _ Get up, Spike. _

_ \- Can't.  _

_ \- Try. _

He dragged himself to hands and knees and shook his head a few times, feeling like everything was rattling loose inside it. 

_ \- Good. Can you walk? _

_ \- Dunno. _

_ \- Crawl if you have to. Right now. To Wesley’s. It's closest, and they won’t look there yet. _

_ \- Bossy one, aren't ya? _

_ \- What else would you expect?  _

  
  


He walked, in the end, limp-stumbling the two blocks to Wesley’s empty apartment. Broke the lock to get in, shoved the door shut behind him and lay down where he was.

\-  _ Get on the couch. You'll rest better. _

_ \- No. Too hard. Let me be.  _ A minute later,  _ But don't leave me. _

_ \- I won't.  _

  
  


Sunset woke him to momentary confusion before it all came flooding back. He sunk deeper into the ground, empty silver casing of the amulet jabbing into his chest and everything one giant bruise. 

\-  _ Hey, Spike.  _ She sounded small. 

_ \- Back, are you?  _

_ \- Never left. Promised, remember?  _

_ \- Guess you did. What are you now? _

_ \- Buffy, Spike. I'm Buffy.  _

_ \- Then you're real.  _ Was it a question? He didn't know. 

_ \- I hope so. We've gotta get out of this place.  _

_ \- If it's the last thing we ever do? _

_ \- Yeah. Take Wesley’s car. _

Brain-Buffy had good ideas. Easiest just to go along, really. He left a note for Wesley:  _ Sorry about door. Taken car. _ Risked a pit stop at the apartment; took Mr Blordo and a blanket from the bed. Coat, wallet (photo). Rest of their cash from the last WR&H theft, half a bag of blood from the fridge. 

Standing there hesitant, afraid to take this leap.

\-  _ Move, Spike. Fast.  _

On the road then, reaching for the city limits. Held his breath as they crossed it; mighta closed his eyes too.

_ \- I'm still here, Spike. You did it. _

\-  _ Yeah? _

_ \- Yeah. You did. Now let's get the hell out of California.  _

  
  


** % **

 

Angel stumbled awkwardly, grabbed for the side of one of his plush office chairs, missed, and slapped his hands out to catch himself on the floor instead. 

Once down he thought it best to stay there while he tried to reboot his brain from the strangely vivid and deeply disturbing nightmare he'd just had.  _ Spike  _ had beaten him, fighting with a vicious single-mindedness and somehow getting back up again and again when he should have been accepting defeat. Then he'd  _ apologised,  _ and sounded like he actually meant it, before shoving a stake towards him. He could swear he'd felt it penetrate just before he woke, the sickening earth-powered magic of wood slamming through his dead heart and everything crumbling around it. He felt queasy, dizzy,  _ discombobulated _ . And what had he been doing before he fell asleep? 

Eve had rung. Warning him about Spike. Or was that part of the dream? She'd been there in the cemetery, at the end, something about the amulet… Spike had shouted at him about it, and she'd been holding it. 

He climbed to his feet and looked over at the desk. Call the team. Find out what was going on with Eve, Spike, what had Wesley done with that amulet in the end? That's right, he was in the Cotswolds, with Drogyn, on a hopeless crusade to save Fred. And Lorne was gone… Cordy. Cordelia had died. That part was real. He wanted to sit down again. 

Call the team. Things had to be arranged. Call… Gunn. He'd be here somewhere, or have his mobile… what time was it? Sunshine coming in, had he fallen asleep after the news about Cordelia and slept the whole night? 

He tried to pick up his phone, and his hand went through it. Tried again, again, muttering denials that grew to shouts as he swept his hand incorporeally through phone - desk - chairs - walls.

Harmony stuck her head in cautiously. “Are you alright, boss?” 

He growled and tried to grab something to throw at her, and she beat a hasty retreat, returning a few minutes later accompanied by Gunn. 

  
  


Papers were fetched and hands swept through him, then Charles laid it out in smooth courtroom patter. He'd signed a two-year contract. If Wolfram and Hart wanted him turned into a ghost to serve it, then they had the power to. There were no loopholes. How had it happened? 

He ran back over the dream-that-wasn’t, hesitating. “Eve,” he finally said, “it was her.”

No one had seen her that day, but an alert would be issued. Perhaps. What could the (three?) of them do if the Partners wanted it this way? He'd signed away his rights to object. 

“They probably figure they'll get twice as much work out of you now,” Harmony said with a smile. “You know, because you won't sleep.”

Ghosts don't sleep? What else did she know? Too late to ask, as she skipped out and back to her desk.

“Angel,” said Charles solemnly, drawing his attention back. “We need to talk about Connor, and what you did to us when you signed that contract.”

He opened his mouth to say,  _ Connor who?  _ But Gunn’s face showed it would be futile. “It was the deal,” he stammered instead. “That was the deal, they have to keep their part, they have to….”

“There's nothing in your contract about  _ maintaining  _ the mind-wipe. Thankfully.” His voice had gone cold.

Angel dropped his face into his hands, but couldn’t feel a thing as he rubbed at it.

  
  
  
  
  



	16. Shells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last song, I promise! Lyrics credit to David Gilmour and Roger Waters, listen here... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPL_SV3n7IU
> 
> Mangled a line of Sylvia Plath in here too.

 

 

 

Huddled around the wheel of Wesley’s sleek sedan, hands shaky and everything else held stiffly, caged around his ribs and their stabbing pain down one side. Hitting buttons on the console until yes, there, heater came on and blew its strange-scented air on him until the shaking eased. Other cars everywhere and thinking he should be watching them, probably one full of angry lawyers somewhere waiting to push them off the road and drag him out and shoot him with crossbows and where would he and brain-Buffy be then? Enough work to do driving the car though, keeping them in motion. Worry about the other if it came. 

The road quietened down away from the city, then a light rain began to fall too and he praised it as a fox before the hunt. Time would pass in the muted swooshing of wheels on road, then he’d startle and ask her again,  _ Buffy?  _

\-  _ I'm here. _

She sounded as worn out as he felt. Which way was she moving now? Closer than last week though. He shivered again.  _ Missed you, pet. _

\-  _ I know. I was watching. Well, shouting in your face mostly, but… I'm sorry. _

\-  _ Not your fault, luv.  _

He thought of a cave in Africa. Felt too old, too tired; could he really have done it all over again? How on earth had he pulled it off once? Her eyes. The fear in them. The betrayal. Yeah. He could. Loyd had sworn no second helpings though, and he'd sworn no deals. Still, Atlantic ocean as good a direction as any. They drove East.

  
  


The first few days he was hounded by the need to put wide miles between them and what they'd left behind, rushing stops for gas with one eye over shoulder. Tyres swallowed up distance for long empty hours until the soft voice in his ear would whisper,  _ stop, Spike. Eat something. Sleep.  _

Dodgy hotel rooms, peeling wallpaper and the stench of hopelessness on the beds. Midnight butcher stores too hard to find outside the cities; demon bars too crowded. Wanting to crawl straight into bed, but she wouldn't let him be. 

\-  _ Food, Spike. Butchers. Break in.  _

_ \- What kind of angel on my shoulder are you?  _

_ \- Don't call me that. _

_ \- Sorry. _

Picking locks and helping himself then, cash left on counters. Drinking it cold in a fog, feeling her nod her approval. 

  
  


Four nights to Virginia where they hit the sea. He stopped, blank and numb, looking left and right up and down the coast. 

_ \- Slow down now, Spike. They're not coming after us. _

- _ Which way? _

Silence. 

\-  _ North?  _ He asked. Could they make Canada; what were the borders like these days? He didn't know.

\-  _ Burn your draft card, _ she whispered, so north they went.

Crossed into Canada and slowed further, taking time to choose better hideouts each day. Was he looking for something? How could he hunt something when he didn't know what it was? Chasing the shadow of a dream kissed goodbye back in California, running for something he carried inside. Sometimes, from something that was in there too. 

 

Up into forest and trees and shadowed roads to hide them in the scent of evergreens. Traded Wesley’s car in for one bigger, older, less conspicuous. Painted the back windows, but left the front ones alone; past his days of using coppers as road snacks. Could only drive so long before he started nodding off anyway, and better to keep their movement to the dark. 

 

Ribs and bruises healed, but the drained-out feeling remained. What had Lorne told him?  _ You know what to do. _ Didn't know a damned thing though. Just, keep moving. Moving felt safer. 

And, keep holding on. 

Maybe he did know something after all. 

Picked up a Pink Floyd tape at the next gas station and shoved it in the car stereo as reminder, but it was the haunting notes of a different track that caught him now. Someone had taken his pain and strung music to to it.

 

__(So, so you think you can tell  
Heaven from hell  
Blue skies from pain  
Can you tell a green field  
From a cold steel rail?  
A smile from a veil?  
Do you think you can tell?)

 

Victory was a cold and hollow pain, as all of his had been of late.

\-  _ No, Spike.  _

And he'd shake the thoughts aside and agree,  _ No, you're right,  _ because she was there, making him other than hollow.

 

Closeness of the forests was good until it wasn't; suddenly everything was all too much, pushing in at him, crowding, shouting, buzzing.    


_ \- South,  _ she said,  _ open skies. _

So they crossed back to the states and drifted for the middle, for desert sands and dusty rocks. Could howl out there and let the distance take it all away, so he did. Ran off into hills of spiny plants, lay on the hood and watched the stars wheel.

  
  


__(Did they get you to trade  
Your heroes for ghosts?  
Hot ashes for trees?  
Hot air for a cool breeze?  
Cold comfort for change?  
Did you exchange  
A walk on part in the war  
For a lead role in a cage?)

  
  


Desert became too much in turn; dry and abrasive, things lurking in its rock caves that shook their venomous tails at him. Felt too fragile to stay there any longer. Struck out across it till he hit the Mississippi, swam in its dark waters and washed the sands away.

  
  


Sometimes he wondered if she was there at all, or if he'd lost the plot. Again. 

_ Don't be ridiculous,  _ she'd tell him, and there'd be a clip around the ear with the words. One time though,  _ I hope you haven't. I hope I'm not driving you there...  _ She felt very far away.

He imagined smacking her one instead, and she barked back louder -  _ Hey _ _!  _

_ Driving me to distraction,  _ he said with a smile,  _ but not insane.  _

  
  


From river waters back over to the east coast, then trickling their way from beach to beach up North Carolina. Soft white sand in the moonlight and lulling roll of waves as he walked and drank and moved on again.

The road blurring one night until he had to pull over, sit there and rub the wet salt from his cheeks with his palms.

\-  _ Spike?  _ coming through softly, hesitant.

\-  _ Hush, pet. I’m okay.  _ Wipe his eyes, put the car back in gear. -  _ Come on. _

  
  


He thinks he feels her watching him sleep as she used to, folded into a chair near the bed or curled across the pillows weightlessly. But when he blinks his eyes open, the room is always empty and still. Digs out his wallet then to study her photo, then tucks it away safely before moving on again. 

  
  


__(How I wish, how I wish you were here  
We're just two lost souls  
Swimming in a fish bowl  
Year after year  
Running over the same old ground  
And how we found  
The same old fears  
Wish you were here)

  
  


_ \- Where do you live now, pet? Is there a quiet corner inside my head? When I close my eyes, does your world drop dead? _

_ \- No. I come out to watch you sleep-- Sorry, that’s creepy.  _

He smiled. -  _ No. Thought I felt you there.  _

_ \- Said I'd watch over you, didn't I? _

  
  


Tiredness easing as they drifted up the coast, and hers too, evidenced in bickering over the music selection until they were both laughing. Her laughter warm in his chest somehow, soothing something there.

  
  


At first he'd simply accepted, almost undaring to question any of it. No space to add an additional layer of worry over what she might find inside of him; no way he was going to push her away, either. It was simply hold tight and ignore the rest. But as they slowed down, they had to start asking.

One night they passed a circus setting up by the beach, and his thoughts wandered backwards and down trails before he caught himself, far too late again. Turned off the stereo and drove in silence for a few miles before directing the thought at her, -  _ How much do you see in there, Buffy?  _

Another silent mile before she replied. -  _ Less than I think I might be able to. More than you'd like.  _

He sighed. Thoughts skip-jumping from denial to admission to apology and back again.  _ \- I didn't want you to…. _

_ \- I'm sorry. But I'm not, too. I didn't know… you've seen so much. Lived so much. Are so much. I love you, Spike. All of you.  _

Crook that invisible finger and he had to accept. -  _ I love you too, Buffy.  _

  
  


%

 

Xander was choosing snacks for the next leg of the journey from Cleveland hellmouth to rural Pennsylvania when a raised voice in the next aisle caught his ear. 

“Shuddup, Slayer. We're getting coke, and that's it.” British, smirky, strangely affectionate. “No, I will not get you a bleeding KitKat. What are you going to do with it? ‘Cause I certainly ain’t eating it for you… you can have a Mars bar, they're not so bad.”

“Spike?” Xander asked quietly, uncertain if he was imagining this whole scene. He stepped around the end of the aisle in time to see the vampire drop a six pack of coke cans and catch it before it hit the ground. The familiar platinum was only tipping his hair now, a couple of inches of dark regrowth contrasting with the pointing white ends, and there was something slightly unfocused about his face. 

“Shit. Harris.” Spike's eyes drifted off as he carried on talking. “Yes, I know it's bloody Xander, what I just said isn't it? Suppose you expect me to say hi?” Spike rolled his eyes and stuck out his hand reluctantly, looking at him again. “ _ Hello,  _ Xander. How are you? Good enough, Slayer? He's not gonna shake it. Probably thinks I'm nuts.” His eyes snapped back to Xanders. “You do, don't you? Buffy disagrees, but I'm not so sure-  _ oww,  _ Slayer, do you mind? Tryna converse here. She's in my head.” He said the last matter-of-fact straight at Xander.

“O-kay…”

“Come on. Let me get these and you can give me a news report.” 

Spike paid cash for the drinks and a KitKat, refusing change, and waited for Xander before leading him towards a surprisingly non-descript car. Xander flicked the safety off the stun gun in his pocket silently as he followed. 

There was a blue soft-toy pig on Spike's passenger seat, and he patted its head in a habitual fashion as he set the box of coke down in the footwell. “Mr Blordo,” he told Xander. “So, spill. How's the bit?”

  
  


** x **

 

“Told you. Thinks I'm nuts. Probably gone to get on the phone tree and spread the gossip.”

_ \- Do you care? _

\-  _ You know I don't.  _

_ \- Good to hear about everyone. _

_ \- Yeah. _

All the same, they turned around as they pulled out of the gas station, bolting south in a straight line to Georgia before slowing. 

  
  


Pulling into Louisiana she fell quiet for a time, then the misty outline of her slowly resolved on the other end of the bench seat. 

“Slayer?” he asked softly, and she jerked her head towards him.

_ \- You can see me? _

“Could,” he said to the empty seat.

_ \- Damn. It's good though, right?  _

“Yeah. Good sign.”

_ \- I think it's a sign you should sleep. _

“Probably.”

  
  
  
  



	17. Underneath

 

 

 

Trauma, she decided, was an impossible thing to pin down in clean borders. One day she'd be certain they were running from the senior partners, from six months as mutual ghosts and less months as not. The next day she'd be casting back glances for Glory and a shaky tower and grave dust in her lungs. Yet another there'd be lullabies pricking at his eyes and crosses on the walls that flipped her upside-down until the both of them were whimper-filled and growling. They would run again from wherever they were, the car filled with foreboding in hushed voices and sharp eyes. Run, until, somehow, it would lessen. Maybe the air con took it - maybe there was a slimy grimy filter full of it somewhere in the bowels of the engine. Maybe it was just a time and distance thing. They didn't question; their body would shout,  _ flee!  _ and they fled, until panic faded and it was okay to slow down again. 

They stuck to the eastern half of the continent, California a distant blot on the horizon that neither wanted to look too closely at, and she worried that one day they'd run out of new places to run to. _Have you been to India, Spike?_ Nepal, Russia, Timbuktu? Was that a real place? He would know. She would ask. And the world was surely vast enough to hold places unexplored, unwritten in memory. But it made no difference really, because she knew that what they ran from was carried with them.

But each time they bolted it became a little calmer, a little shorter, slowing down a little easier to do, and by the time summer came around again they were pulling into New Orleans and he said,  _ We should stay for the festival,  _ and she said,  _ Yes, let's rent a room.  _ Have a place to say  _ there's... _ , call theirs, beyond the walls of this car. So they found one down by the bayou with a little bed and a fridge and counted out a little more of their dwindling cash and decided to stay for 9 weeks, but thought maybe they wouldn't, but that would be okay too.

She made him throw out the sheets on the bed and buy new ones, nice ones, something soft and clean to wrap her poor vampire in. Eventually he started stripping before bed again, his feet looking strangely vulnerable and small after months of seeing them only in boots, amulet shining silver against his french vanilla chest. She wished he would take it off too, put it down, leave it behind; didn't need to ask to know he'd refuse. He toyed with the chain constantly whenever his hands were free, slithering it around the ends of his fingers, until it seemed as much a part of him as smoking had been, and maybe it was a replacement, because he never did that anymore. 

When he slept it was easier to see herself as separate, as outside of him; to pull back far enough to look down at her own body and see it clearly. Slowly it became easier at other times too, and she could lie next to him in bed without falling inside. She fancied she could have gone to sleep, curled there around him, but daren’t risk it, so still kept her invisible silent watch through the days. She'd promised, after all.

  
  


She felt like they were rewinding - maybe that was what the travelling in circles was for - and surely if she just wanted it badly enough and they spun around in circles enough then soon enough she'd pop back into proper ghostie ghostlife-ness. She was Tinkerbell, she told him; -  _ If you believe, clap your hands. Maybe I'll come flying back.  _

He filled with something hot at that - anger, she thought first, but it wasn't. Hands white-knuckled on the mattress edge, - clinging-not-clapping - and he said the words out loud with quiet vehemence, “I will _never_ not believe in you, Buffy.”

_ \- I know,  _ she whispered, contrite.  _ \- I think that's how I'm here. _

Was she, though? Sometimes she would wonder. She assumed she was Buffy and he was certain she was Buffy, but Buffy wasn't like this, she remembered her being otherwise. Unless that wasn’t real either, monks writing in her head again, his too, and all they'd ever been was these two lost souls spinning in their fishbowl and she'd panic and say, -  _ Spike!  _

And he'd say, “You’re real, Buffy.” Always sure when she wasn't and somehow her hopefulness there when he needed it in turn, and so they got along.

  
  


One evening she watched as he woke up with a hard-on and reached his hand towards it automatically before he remembered and turned the movement into a casual stretch instead. The first time this had happened, she’d turned her face away in embarrassment, cringing again at her unintentional complete obliteration of his privacy. The third time, she'd let her eyes peek back over a little to watch him stretch that gorgeous strong sinewy body of his. By the fifth time, she'd decided she had to do something about it.

\-  _ Spike?  _

He yawned, then mumbled, “Evening, Slayer.”

She drifted over from her chair, letting herself nuzzle back into wherever she went when she wasn't invisibly somewhere. -  _ I was thinking… if you want to… I mean…” _

He yawned again. “Spit it out.”

\-  _ I'm stopping you from… and you shouldn't have to… and I can try to not look…  _ She stammered the last in a rush, -  _ but I'd like to feel it with you.  _

He drew his brows together for a minute, then realised what she was talking about. And… became shy. She wouldn't have thought it was possible (especially after the weeks he'd spent encouraging ghost-her to help herself to the goods he’d purposefully displayed every time he slept), but faced with the idea of pleasuring himself while she watched so intimately,  _ Spike  _ became  _ shy. _ He stretched slightly awkwardly and just happened to pull the blanket over himself more as he did it, then told her, “It's alright, Buffy. I'm not actually going to explode if I don't do anything with it, as much as I might once have tried to tell you otherwise.”

\-  _ I’m sorry. I shouldn't have-- _ Her turn to feel like crawling under a blanket now, and very glad she couldn't blush.

He paused, then said, “Now now, Slayer. Didn't say I don't appreciate the thought…” He seemed to run back over it, and a sliver of challenge came into him. “You say you'd like to?”

\-  _ Umm. If you wanted to. You don't have to. _

He considered for a second longer, then told her, “Never let it be said I don't keep my invisible girl satisfied.” He slid his hand down his chest slowly, then paused and added quietly, “Tell me, yeah, if you want me to stop?”

He sounded so soft and vulnerable, and something tender and loving flowed through her, or of her, or from whatever ‘her’ was now. -  _ I will. _

“Alright,” he murmured, then slid his hand down to encircle his cock. It had lowered slightly with the shyness and worry, but now it twitched in his palm eagerly, and she felt for it, poor neglected little Spike-part.  _ Hey, not little,  _ he thought back, and no, of course not, it was long and full and growing even firmer now as he gripped it in his fist and oh, she had missed this, and some sort of hungry purr ran through her at the sight. He slid his hand slowly up the length of it and  _ woah, this was different. _ Tingling building inside of him, a steadier mounting swell of pleasure than the pulsing waves she was used to with her own body, electric nerve endings zinging from his toes all the way up to somewhere deep inside. 

His hand was larger than hers, touched more at once, but seemed to fit there perfectly, as though this was exactly where it should always be. He slid it from base to glans with a sure practised grip as his cock surged to rock hardness, velvet over steel against the soft skin of his palm.  _ Oh,  _ she said,  _ oh  _ in a little catch of his breath _ ,  _ because the arousal was rippling thrumming through her and there were no words she could put to this.  _ Oh?  _ he asked her, amusement in his tone, and,  _ Good, so good,  _ she whispered back. It was peculiar, feeling the touch of his hand on himself from both sides, but oh, she needed more, needed… she didn't know. When it was her hands he liked it when she rubbed her thumb over the tip lightly at the top of a stroke, so,  _ Do, do that…  _ she husked. He chuckled, and rubbed his thumb there, catching beads of pre-cum and languidly sliding his slickened thumb alone down the sensitive underside of his cock. She made some sort of whimpering plea, and he chuckled again, confident now, and took his hand away for a moment to wet it with saliva, and oh, he needed to put that hand back now, it should live down there. He wrapped it back around his shaft and stroked up and down, firmer, faster, slickened flesh gliding smoothly, the tingling building and centering. He brought his other hand up, cupping and stroking his balls as he gripped his cock harder, his hips thrusting a little now too. She thought maybe she was panting short little audible breaths as the rhythm built and his balls began tightening, or maybe it was him, or both of them. Something was jittering, climbing, coming, and she didn’t know what she was racing towards, only that she had to reach it,  _ needed  _ it, now, would fairly die without it, then he gripped himself hard and paused, a shiver running through him as he eased back and held off his release.  _ God, don't stop,  _ she pled, and he smirked a little, teasing, but lost the smirk as he snatched in a ragged breath. So,  _ please,  _ she begged, desperate now,  _ please, oh god, Spike _ . 

_ Fuck, Buffy,  _ he hissed, hand tightening.  _ Yes, god, yes,  _ she panted, and he threw his head back on the mattress and pumped himself hard and fast and gasped out another  _ Fuck,  _ as his eyes rolled up and everything became clenching and pulsing and gushing pumping waves of release and pleasure, tightening and exploding and cum splattering on his chest in spurts and there were no more thoughts. 

Evenings became more fun after that. And nights, and mornings, and afternoons. 

  
  


There were other feelings, too. There was a place a few streets from their room that was open late selling blood and various meaty odds and ends, so they would walk there after dusk a couple of times each week. Someone going the other way would begin approaching on the footpath,  _ thump-thump, thump-thump  _ of blood swooshing under their skin,  _ thump-thump _ growing louder (and if they had any sense, faster too) as they drew nearer and level and passed in a swirling of - hot breath - acrid sweat - perfume - food - alcohol - tobacco. Then the thump-thump moving away and her wanting to follow it, stalk after it, listen to it speed up as they sensed her silent deadly movement behind. 

\-  _ Humans are so  _ _ noisy _ , she'd say again as she pulled back from him, -  _ how do you stand it? _

He'd smirk to himself and say nothing _, it’s nothing_ _.  _ Face telling her,  _ ‘m not some idiotic overwhelmed fledge, luv.  _

Her thinking again,  _ I never truly understood.  _ Saying in his ear again, -  _ I love you, Spike,  _ and him replying softly. So she'd say, - _ What?  _

Then he'd shout it to the skies, “I bleeding love you, Buffy.” Surely someone would hear.

  
  


After they'd bumped into Xander it had become impossible not to think about Dawn. He would call London from a lonely phone booth, and all her words would dry up as his shrunk to small ones,  _ hi. how are you?  _ Dawn would fill in for them, fast chatter on easy topics, historical religion at uni, her linguistics classes.

What did she really think; did she clap her hands and believe? They didn't know. But she liked the calls, made him promise to call again soon before she'd let him hang up, reminded them she would tell no one. So he kept them up.

On one of these she was bursting with news,  _ You'll never guess.  _ Teasing it out as long as she could (thirty seconds).  _ I spoke to Andrew on the weekend, and he’s just been to LA…   _ (snake of coldness coiling - only a matter of time before someone put his disappearance and Angel's together, couldn't fathom why it hadn't happened already) _ ...the Senior Partners have killed Angel and made him a ghost!  _ she squealed. ... _ Spike? Are you still there?  _

Musta been silent too long. “Uh… yeah. When’d this all happen then?” he asked, cautious. 

“Way back. March, I think. They've been keeping it hush-hush as long as possible. That lawyer - Gunn? - asked Andrew for any help the council could offer. I think he told him to piss off.” 

Maybe there was some ironic justice left in the world after all. 

\- _Stupid_ _lawyers,_ Buffy said afterwards. - _They must have meant to ghost him in the hellmouth after all._

“Either that, or we've been played more than we thought.”

  
  


He'd been dusting vamps whenever they happened to come across them, quick, clean, and quiet, in the manner of mundane duty. Now that they had a steady locale they began systematically patrolling again, him with a stake and her with the worst quips she could think up each day. She never knew if the vamps could hear them, but they made him groan and then laugh with her. 

Having to sit back and watch drove her up the wall, but when she let her frustration grow too strong it would rub onto him and affect his movement. So she tried to focus on cheerleading instead (or backseat slaying, as he referred to it), and slowly it moved from necessary duty to something more. He was good - damn good - which she'd always known, but now that she was riding shotgun she revelled in it in a way she’d never have wanted to admit to in the past. He thrilled in a decent fight, in flirting the danger of taking a few hits to get his own in more satisfactorily; in the solid tactile impact of fists and feet on flesh, whether his own or his opponents. The suppleness of practised muscle, the twisted kick he got out of occasionally hitting the ground to spring back up wilder. She lusted alongside him for that moment at the end when the stake drove in, the visceral satisfaction of killing before being killed, and his mad joy in it returned. 

Within the first week their neighborhood had been cleared, and they branched out, exploring as they hunted. 

There were occult stores aplenty here, voodoo and witchcraft and one proclaiming to supply ‘Vampyr Essentials for the Living Dead’. That one had hefty anti-vamp wards reaching far out in every direction. There were fortune tellers in little tents at the markets, women offering gris-gris from baskets on the sidewalks, a ‘haunted’ coffee house where you could book a seance. They looked, and they wondered, but they didn't go near them. 

The man at the butcher's counter called him Spook, but was smart enough to keep further insight to himself, if that's what it was. The woman who did tarot readings a few shops down was riskier, telling him he looked haunted, should have a reading, buy a charm to keep the ghosts away. They detoured around her store after that.

\-  _ Is that what I am? Your own personal ghost.  _

“You’re not a ghost.”

This again. She felt driven to keep asking for a label, a category beyond  _ Buffy  _ or  _ Slayer. _ Something they could find in a book one day, to explain the future and assure her she wasn't hurting him living - unliving - whatever - like this. There were never any answers anymore in this world of  _ but  _ and  _ not.  _

\-  _ Maybe I'm a haunt. Is that different?  _

“No. You're not a haunting. You're… my spirit.”

That would do. 

 

 

 


	18. Origin

 

 

 

** x **

 

The woman in the house on the corner watched him shrewdly every time they passed, sitting on her front porch in a rocking chair. He watched her in turn, and the caution and reluctance on the faces of the people who came to her. 

\-  _ What is she? _ Buffy asked.

He shook his head. -  _ Dunno. Smells human.  _ Plenty of charlatans scamming the tourists in this town, but she had no signs proclaiming her business and often sent away people who came to her door. 

Finally one day she hailed him, “Soul-boy!” He tensed his jaw tight at the label, but slowed his feet and looked up carefully. “Get over here,” she called, waving him towards her porch.

He stilled, hesitating, and a silent argument was held before he told Buffy to shut it and let him handle this. The woman pointed him to the top stair, and he crouched down and waited. She didn't introduce herself, just peered at him closely and then sat back in her chair. 

“I need to know,” she said, “how a vampire comes to have  _ two  _ souls.”

“None of your concern,” he told her. 

\-  _ Shush, Spike, don't offend her _

The woman snorted. “Should listen to that one. You don't seem to be looking for an exorcism, but I could certainly provide one.” 

_ Shit shit shit.  _ Was it safe to bolt? 

“Don't try to run, boy. Entertain me, and perhaps we can work something out. How on earth did she get in there in the first place?”

Well, wasn't that a bloody question. Wasn't when the amulet smashed, he's fairly certain of that. Was it when she took his hand and said,  _ I'm not letting you go? _ No, long before. Ditto that moment in her basement;  _ I believe in you, Spike.  _ Perhaps she crashed her way in with the church organ, the impact of her shining spirit what really broke his spine. “I'm not sure,” he said in the end. 

“So, you're smart enough to know when you don't know. That's something. Now, what would it be worth to you? Knowing. Seeing. Would you sell me one of those souls to put the other to rights?”

\-  _ No.  _

He kept his mouth shut. 

“Worth a try,” she shrugged. “Don't know that I could prise yours loose alone in any case. So go on, give me a story instead, and I'll trade in kind. How does a demon come to earn a soul, and how on earth does he become clean enough to hold a second one?”

He stilled his thoughts, giving her a space to fill. 

\-  _ Okay. But I'm telling it. _

“No you're-”

The woman smiled. “Good.”

\-  _ Once upon a time, there was a vampire. The vampire was pretty. Pretty obnoxious, pretty cocky, but most of all, pretty determined. He didn't know it yet, but he was also a Champion… _

He gave up rolling his eyes at her, and settled down to reluctantly endure. Somewhere around, ‘ _ She told him it would never be him,’  _ the emotion in her thought-voice gripped him by the chest, and he forgot the woman and the porch and all of time and space as he felt instead this tale from the other side. 

_ … He loved hopelessly, endlessly, impossibly. More than any man should. He walked into fire for her, and she saw that it only burned brighter inside of him…  _

The woman lifted a hand, and Buffy paused to let her speak. “‘ _ You shall make it go through the fire, and it shall be clean.’ _ There was a literal fire too, no?”. 

\-  _ Yes. It… came from inside of him. It killed the First Evil. _

“Don't let me skip you ahead. Continue.”

\- …  _ and she loved him the same…  _

…  _ and she took his hand, and the hellmouth burnt…  _

The woman paused her again. “Ever read the Bible, kids?  _ ‘This sin will not be forgiven you until you die the second death, the lake of fire. That the trial of your faith, though it be tried with fire, might be found to praise and honour and glory.’ _ No wonder you're so clean. Continue.”

_ … and the amulet broke, and he called out to her, and she pressed herself in closer. The end. _

Silence fell, and he let it. There were too many words tumbling around to pin any into order. 

“Alright,” said the woman. “I'd better make mine brief; it's almost dawn.”

He realised with a start that she was right, and stretched out his fingers to loosen them.

“Once upon a time, I was coming out of the bank with my mother when my foot skidded and slipped off the edge of the ramp. I thought I would fall to my doom, a whole ten inches below. She jerked me back to her side and away from the edge, and I overbalanced the other way, tangling in her skirt. She tried to push me to stand up, saying,  _ quit your messing about,  _ but I was scared now, and I couldn't stop flopping into her legs enough to stand on my own. I thought the edge would still get me for sure. Finally, she hauled me up straight, plonked me down, and held her arm rigid, and my legs stood, and we carried on. The end.” She leaned towards him slightly. “Quit your messing about, and get off my porch.”

As they walked home, the words tumbled into order on his tongue. “Buffy?”

\-  _ Yeah?  _

“I love you too.”

The warm-inside feeling came, and he smiled.

  
  


\-  _ What do you think she meant?  _ Buffy asked in their room later. -  _ That I should… move back, somehow? Let- let go a little?  _

“Dunno if that's a good idea. But it makes sense. The times I've glimpsed you.” A bare handful since they'd left LA, and always when he was most run down and she feeling calm.

\-  _ Can we not try it today?  _

“Scared, Slayer?”

\-  _ Yes. _

“Me too.” He kicked off his shoes. “Come to bed.” 

He felt her press in deeper, and burrowed them down into the blankets. -  _ Goodnight, pet. _

_ \- Goodnight, Spike.  _

  
  


** + **

 

Slowly, cautiously, she began edging her toes away from his skirt. When he woke up in the evenings, he talked to her across the room instead of scrambling to pull her back; when they went out, she drifted near his side instead of holding him close. A hollow loneliness ached, and they tried to fill it with talking;  _ There's a little cloud over there, do you think it will rain? How many steps does it take to walk from the corner to our gate? Is that a frog, making that sound? _

But slowly, she began to  _ feel  _ again. Or he began to feel her. It was so hard to tell the difference these days, if there was one. Either way, one morning she tried to press a kiss to his forehead, and he smiled and reached a hand out to stroke her cheek. The basic primal sensation of being touched by another person - of loving contact with a separate body - took her by surprise with its intensity, melting into every part of her like golden syrup, flowing oozy and warm until she moaned softly at the simple pleasure.

They held hands everywhere, touching, touching as much as possible while remaining separate. The neighbours must have thought he was (even more) insane, but neither of them cared, because with his eyes shut, she was there. 

“Open your eyes, doofus,” she laughed as they walked. “I'm not a guide dog.” He only chuckled and turned his face to the sky, sure and secure. She squeezed his hand. “If you're not looking, how are you going to tell me when I become visible?” She would, she told herself. This time, it would work. She had decided. 

But scent was next, surprising them both. Him breathing in great deep lungfuls while she laughed and then he had to laugh and everything went silly. 

“This makes no sense,” she giggled. 

“What ever has?” he grinned back.

They made love blindly, and yet not; eyes closed and other senses singing. Held each other for long hours in between, petting and stroking and nuzzling against solidity. “So _ warm,”  _ he would whisper against her. “God, I've missed your skin.”

Other times he felt cold, pulling his coat tight around him, and she trembled at the way the wind went through her. It was hard, so damn hard sometimes, not to dive back into him and what had become familiar. 

They didn't count tricks, and she didn’t try to change herself, her clothes, the radio. Change was constant as it was, and each step had to bring readjustment. It was good, so good. But they mourned the loss of something, too. 

He would look off into the distance, and she would have to nag at him to share, “What are you thinking about?” But he would always tell her, so that was okay after all. 

As summer waned into autumn, she trickled into visibility, diaphanous and ethereal again, ebbing and flowing with their moods. “I feel like a badly-tuned TV,” she complained, and he held his index fingers over her head. Reception grew until finally she was opaque to each strand of hair, shadowless, but catching the light. No one else could see her, but they hardly noticed.

Time came up on their rent again, and they had to make a decision. So they sold the car, put a few more months down, and bought a bigger bed. Dawn started asking to visit, sure that she would sense Buffy in person, though she still heard nothing on the phone. 

“Not yet, half-pint,” he said for her. “Soon, alright?”

Patrolling was now doubly frustrating, until the day she whipped up the scythe and decapitated a mouchtar demon before it had any idea she was there. She squealed and pointed at the oozing body, and carried her weapon every night thereafter. Always tried her fists first, and one day they connected. Another week, and a vampire saw them coming (it didn't save him). 

“Alright,” Spike said into the phone, “If you reckon you can ninja over here somehow, we'd love to see you. Whether or not you can see her.”

“I know I can see  _ you,  _ silly,” Dawn said, and started working on the ninja plan.

  
  


Dawn pulled up at dusk in a rental sedan -  _ driving!!  _ \- and Buffy stayed glued to the window, watching while she took her bag from the backseat and walked down the path to their door. Buffy stayed there while her sister knocked quietly, and while Spike opened the door, and while Dawn moved out of her view to enter their room, and while the door closed. 

Then Dawn squealed - deafening, piercing - “Buffy! Oh my god!” and almost tripped and fell in her coltish dash to the window but didn't fall because look,  _ look! Spike!  _ Buffy had her arms around her and was hugging her and everything just  _ fitted  _ somehow, even though Dawn was even taller again and her hair was all strange but oh, it still smelt the same, and another piece clicked into place in her chest. 

Eventually Dawn released her in order to hug Spike instead, arms around his waist as if she were still small. “ _ Thank you,”  _ she said into him, “I  _ knew _ you could do it.”

He started trying to protest, but she told him to  _ shut up  _ and squeezed him harder. So, “Good to see you too, bit,” he said instead. 

Dawn stayed for two nights, negating the worst of the jetlag by becoming nocturnal with them, being shown around town at midnight and playing cards through the wee hours. When the sun rose the first day, Spike fake-yawned his way to bed while Dawn chose dinner from the cupboard; they'd crammed both it and the fridge with a ridiculous amount of sugar-based human food ahead of her arrival - tastes could change, what were her favourites now? She filled a bowl with a disturbing mix of pretzels, breakfast cereal and whoppers, then nodded to the door. “Wanna sit outside?”

“Okay. Just in the yard.” If Dawn noticed her embarrassed hesitation to go further, she didn’t comment on it.

She called it a yard, but it wasn't really - eight feet of grass between the room they rented and the street, with a paved path winding down to the door. Or it had been grass, when they'd arrived. He'd been pulling chunks out for months, dropping in little plants he'd snitch from other people's borders and slip into his pocket to cart home. “They won’t even notice,” he'd insisted when she queried it, and they wouldn't, but that hadn't been what she'd asked. 

Some of the plants had withered and died, but more of them grew, and soon the grass was all gone and the ragtag jumble of things was sprouting flowers and runners and seed heads. 

“Go water the garden,” he'd begun saying in the afternoons. “It's a hot day. It'll need it.” 

She was confused, at first; times past she'd have leapt to being upset that he wouldn't tell her straight if he wanted some space. But things were different between them now. “Why, Spike? Why the garden?”

And then she got her real answer. “You need something  _ living _ , Buffy. I can't give you that.” 

But he had. So she'd braved the lonely sunshine to turn the hose on in the afternoons, and watched things grow. And out there she'd found another layer of warmth to share with him.

“Come and see my garden,” she said to Dawn now. “There's- well, I don't know what any of them are, really. But there's lots of flowers, and they're pretty. Come on.”

They sat on the path, and Dawn nibbled at her dinner while Buffy fiddled with the stones. “Are you…” Buffy started, but that wasn't it. She watched a tiny ant moving across the ground, then spoke to it quietly. “I'm sorry, Dawn. Things got…”

“I know,” Dawn said sadly. “You did what you had to. And I knew he'd be looking after you. Are  _ you _ okay?”

She thought about it before answering. “It doesn't feel like a good idea to say so. But things are… it's good, here. We've been missing you though.”

“Lucky I came to visit then.” Dawn grinned. 

They talked about Dawn’s classes and roommate, edging up to the difficult topics. Willow was travelling cross-dimensionally, whatever that meant; Faith was in Canada, trying to avoid being tied into the new council structure. Xander was in Wales setting something up with the slayers there, but flew back to stay on Dawn’s couch most weekends, and was her sole source of reliable info at the moment. “Giles is looking for you. Or, for Spike. He's been in Pennsylvania for the last two weeks.”

She felt her mouth twist into a sneer. “Good for him. Decided he needed another trained fighter on the team, did he?”

“No, he… Buffy, he's really sorry. He's- Xander says it's eating away at him. I think he's hoping to find someone he can apologise to. Or… someone to punish him, maybe. He's ordered everyone to let him know if anyone matching Spike's description is seen, but not to go near him because he could be insane.”

She snorted, then it turned into a sigh. “I don't know if I can see him yet,” she said eventually. “Spike might talk to him though. Do you think he would listen?”

“You'll never know if you don't try.”

She laughed. “Have you got the inspirational quote calendar or something?”

“The diary,” Dawn snickered. 

“No demonic uprisings? Apocalypses?” she asked.

Dawn shook her head. “Nothing worrying seems to be happening. Or if it is, they're not telling me.”

The sun seemed to pale, and the air suddenly tasted sour. “I should be doing more,” Buffy said quietly. “I've been trying to ignore it all… I can't keep shirking forever. It’s my fault all those girls are out there.”

“They’ve got plenty of support; no one expects you to watch them. Or no one would, if they knew about you. Besides, you've been doing plenty. I'll bet this town's safer than it's ever been.”

Probably true, but the guilt-cloud deepened. “Maybe… would you tell the gang about me? That you've seen me? No, that's not fair.” She sighed. “Alright, we'll ring Giles.”

“Good.”

  
  


After Dawn left, she sat looking out of the window again as the morning grew. Spike lay in bed with his eyes shut, but she could tell he wasn't asleep, a faint tension to his stillness. She crossed the room and wriggled in beside him, and as his arms snaked around her, his tenseness faded. “I think I need to call Giles,” she said quietly. “I won't-- I mean, do you think we should?”

“Buffy,” he frowned. “I don't own you. Well, alright, maybe I kinda do, but only so that no one else does. If you wanna extend the olive branch then go ahead.”

“But what do  _ you  _ think?” 

He sighed, and the tightness came back around his jaw. “I think you used to tell me what you thought, and if I disagreed we'd have it out.” He kicked the blanket off and stood up jerkily, then waved a hand at her where she still lay on the bed in surprise, and shouted, “This isn't you, Buffy! This -  _ we, us, we’re -  _ I don't bloody want you to be part of me.”

A lump rose in her throat, and she pulled the blanket with her as she wriggled back to sit against the headboard. “I…” She blinked at a weird feeling in her eyes and swallowed. “It's too much, isn't it. You're sick of me always being here. I mean, I understand, everyone needs… I've been trying not to make it harder…”

His hand dropped, and his anger with it. “No, Buffy…” He sat down on the edge of the bed, sighing again. “I'll  _ always _ want you here with me. You know that. But you've got to be  _ you. _ I'm not… things aren't going to fall apart if we disagree, or if you want to pop me one occasionally.” He crawled over to sit side-by-side and turned his face partly towards her. “What’s happened to that stake up your ass, Slayer? You forget it when you re-solidified?”

She smiled slightly and dropped her face. “I guess I did. Sorry, I’ll work on reintegrating stubborn-bitchy-Buffy from now on, if you insist.” She continued more quietly, “There's just been so much else to fight this year.”

He arched an eyebrow at her.  _ Think I don't know that?  _

She sucked at her lip, rueing their agreement of transparency before she said the rest. “I'm not sure I want all of me back. I didn't- I don't like what I was becoming. What I did.”

His face melted into that tenderly affectionate look that used to make her heart flutter and today made her eyes feel weirder. “Buffy. You were what you had to be. Things are different now, aren't they? So relax. Let yourself be yourself, because sometimes, I still miss you.”

She sighed. Maybe he was right. Though she'd never tell him that. “I want you to be happy, Spike. You shouldn't have to fight me too.”

“Sparring, innit? Just sparring, Slayer. Raises the spirits. Keeps us sharp.” He draped an arm around her shoulders, and she pressed against his side. As she closed her eyes to take a deep breath in and out, she realised what the feeling was. He must have seen it too, because he touched a finger to the bottom of her eye softly. “Are you  _ crying? _ ”

She wiped her eyes and studied her fingers - dry. “I think… almost?” 

He pulled her in tighter and kissed the top of her head. “Congratulations.”

She chuckled. 

“Call Rupes. We've got to contact Wes.”

“Agreed.” She pinched his thigh, and he let out a started yelp, jerking away. “Just keeping you sharp. Since we're in agreement.” She grinned, and he growled and jumped back at her.

  
  
  
  
  



	19. Time Bomb

 

 

 

 

 

Six Months Previously.

 

Drogyn, guardian of the Deeper Well, met him in a paddock with a sombre face and few words. A wave of his hands moved Illyria’s sarcophagus from the truck to the well’s entrance, then down into the darkness of the earth. He set it down in an antechamber, and Wesley stood silent, afraid to ask, while Drogyn gathered scrolls and candles and incense. 

He was handed a small round shield made of woven saplings, told to hold it tight, and reminded again when it hung loosely at his side. Drogyn began to hum, a monotonous deep sound that seemed to continue smoothly without inhalation, then he said something else and Wesley realised the sound had been picked up by the room itself to echo endlessly. 

Drogyn stepped up to him and repeated it into his face, “Not. Until. I. Say.” 

Wesley nodded once. Then Drogyn hummed new notes, adding ever-deeper layers of sound into the room, and slowly, quietly, he began to open the box.

Fred was tiny in there, a frail little speck in her bundle of blankets. The blue of her lips was the only colour in her pale face, and her cheekbones jutted out starkly under her sunken eyes. Drogyn’s instructions were unnecessary; he was afraid to look closer, let alone approach. Yet couldn't look away, either. 

“Are you sure?” Drogyn asked. “We could leave her sleeping here.” He paused, lowered his voice. “I don't know how much of her will be left… it may be gentler. I'm sorry.”

“No,” he said, stepping forward. “Never.” 

Drogyn nodded. “It is done. Take her, and I will seal the other in alone.”

Wesley pushed back the blanket to pick Fred up. She seemed to weigh nothing, and something in him shrivelled at the feel of her, all cold white skin over sharp bones of rigid limbs. It seemed impossible that she should live, but her chest moved in slow, shallow little breaths, so he pulled her against his own and tried to tuck his jacket around her.

Drogyn slid the lid closed again, and then the humming slowly faded away. He handed Wesley a pamphlet with an address on it. “Take her here. If anyone can help, it will be them.”

He read it; wiccan hospice care. “Thank you,” he said, and there didn't seem to be anything else to say, so he nodded once and walked out, moving carefully now with his too-light bundle. 

  
  


The staff at the hospice were soft-spoken and kind, but their sympathy-filled eyes were difficult to meet, so he always kept his own gaze on a spot above their shoulders. Indeed, everything was soft-spoken here; pastel walls and watercolour paintings, warm muted lighting around the clock, blankets that moved silently and cotton swabs tapped over the speakers on the machines to dim their beeps. A few days in the place and he felt like the cotton fluff had been stuffed in his ears, down into his brain until he was sibling to the rabbit that sat on her bedside table. Or maybe it was just the lack of sleep.

Fred had been taken from him when he'd arrived, warmed up and wiped clean and run through machines she would certainly know the specifics of, were she awake to see them. Then placed in this room and meditated over by a middle-aged woman who introduced herself as a doctor and switched smoothly between hands that buzzed with Power and the readouts from the little monitoring things that were poked into and stuck onto Fred. She'd asked him to come to her office to talk, but he didn’t want to leave Fred again, so she ordered tea to be brought and sat him down on the spare bed to discuss what he knew and share her findings. 

There was damage, she said. Fred’s body would heal, with time and rest, but things were all jumbled up in her head. Layers of disorganisation where those sinister ancient fingers had wriggled in and pushed things out of place. She might not wake up; she might wake up someone else. He told her about Vail, his suspicions; could something be done there? Better to leave things as they were, the woman said; further disruption might be too much for her to take. She poured him a cup of tea, patted his knee, and wished him luck. 

The tea kept coming, and he kept drinking it. He wondered if there was something in it - he seemed hazy for a while after drinking it; not in a vulnerable way, but rather… restful. Patient. As he watched and waited, worries drifted past; he kept wishing he had a number to call Spike, ask… maybe tell him, _I'm sorry. I tried._ That second would feel like lying though, a selfish attempt to shake off his own guilt. Pitiful, really, when he looked back on the months he'd spent at Wolfram and Hart. All those resources, and what had he achieved? He'd never even figured out exactly what she was, let alone managed to do anything to save her. Just watched helplessly as her batteries ran down and they stopped coming to see him. He'd thought about trying to track down their apartment after her last visit, but didn't want to intrude. Not empty handed. Kept paging through books, of course, rereading what he'd been over before in case of some secret he'd missed, but feared that even if he did find an answer now, it would be too late. His desperate attempt to summon her for Fred had been more of a hopeless clutching at straws than a real expectation that she was still here, proven when she didn't answer. Still… Willow hadn’t been able to explain why she'd suddenly had to call him that day, so every morning that Fred still breathed he whispered his thanks out into the sky and hoped that Buffy heard it, wherever she was. As he watched Fred sleep he thought that maybe what he really wanted to say to Spike was, _I truly understand now, and I'm sorry._

  
  


After the first week the horrid paleness was gone from Fred’s skin, and her lips were softly pink again. Her bones still jutted starkly - she’d had so little in reserve - and the doctor still looked mournful after her meditative examinations, but as the warmth returned to her cheeks he couldn’t squash the little candle of hope that flared inside of him. Yet still she slept, unmoving, and finally, one day, exhaustion pulled him under too.

The images came smashing through his dreamspace like boulders through a glass roof, smashing everything to jagged edges and punching the breath out of him.  _ Darla pregnant. Baby Connor. A prophecy. Sajhan. Running. Justine, cutting his throat. Angel, holding a pillow to his face. Lilah, hands roped together. Lilah, dead and cold as he held an axe over her. Jasmine.  _ Oh, the  _ happiness. Hunting down Fred.  _

He lay on the floor where he'd fallen, heart doing its best to bolt from his chest and panting in short heavy breaths.  _ Connor, eyes emotionless as he watched them in the cage.  _ Lay there as a nurse came hurrying in and called softly to another one. Lay there trying to shove everything into order as a second set of feet entered the room. Then there was a noise, a little whimper. A little whimper that he  _ knew. _ He leapt to his feet.

Fred was awake.

  
  


For a while he was able to ignore everything in the sheer joyous relief of  _ Fred! Awake!  _ Talking, even, in a tiny husky voice, and sipping her own colour of tea through a straw held by the nurse. She slept after that, but it was a proper sleep, her brow furrowing slightly when there was a noise in the hall and half-waking to snuggle down better when the doctor checked in again.

Sitting on the bed next to hers he fingered the scar on his neck again. Where had he thought it had come from? How on earth could he have missed this glaring red flag in the mirror every morning? He’d suspected  _ something _ had been done; why had he not pursued it earlier? It wasn’t like him to try to ignore the potentially uncomfortable. Or was it? Who was he, really?

In the middle of the night she woke to more clarity, big round eyes watching him across what suddenly felt like an acre of linoleum rather than the three feet it was. 

“Wesley,” she said, and the huskiness was gone, replaced with a cagey chill. It couldn't dim the smile that spread across his face at the sound of her. 

“Fred,” he whispered, and gravitated across the acre to crouch by her head.

She lifted a hand weakly, stilling him from coming closer. “Don't… The memories. What happened?”

He told her slowly, and her face flickered through a myriad of emotions before settling in a sort of wearily horrified calm. He lifted a hand towards her, wanting to comfort her somehow, remind her she was, would be, okay, and therefore the world too, but again she held him off by lifting her own. 

“Wesley,” she said, “We can’t- what we had-- we weren’t ourselves. I’m sorry.”

Of course. “I understand,” he said quietly, and wondered how his voice could sound so smooth when everything was dying inside. “I kept a woman bound in my closet,” he added in the same flat tone, wondering why he felt it necessary to say. He retreated to stand by the other bed, then asked her solicitously, “How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?” 

“No, thank you,” she said, and gave him a small smile. Then asked very quietly, “Buffy?”

He looked away. “I tried to summon her, to help you. She didn’t answer. I think-”

“No. She did… she came into the box and waited with me. And… when you were on the phone. She was there.”

He nodded to himself.  _ Willow’s call. _

“How… how long has it been?”

“Eight days.” Too long. 

“I'm tired. I think I'll try to sleep more.”

He nodded and sat down in one of the chairs. 

  
  


When the doctor came around the next morning, Wesley stepped out to the hallway to give Fred some privacy, and made the call to LA from his cellphone. 

Harmony filled him in on the new situation before carrying the phone through to Angel’s office, reminding Angel to  _ please _ remember to notify her when he was done so that she could collect the handset. 

“Fred’s awake,” he said eventually. “And we’ve got our memories back. Have you heard from Buffy or Spike?”

There was a slightly too-long pause, and then Angel said, “I think he’s left town.”

“Oh.” 

“I think… I’m firing you. Fred too. We should never have come here. Don’t come back.”

“Oh,” he said again. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say, so he hung up. 

  
  


Fred grew stronger day by day, until the hospice staff told her she could go home whenever she liked.  _ Home? _

“I think maybe I should,” she said. “Let mom and dad smother me for a while.”

“That’s an excellent plan,” he said, smiling gently, and stepped outside to start making arrangements. 

  
  


After waving Fred off at the airport, he caught a cab to his parents’ home. His father’s voice droned in and out of focus during mealtimes and other times, but for the first time, it seemed to have no impact. By the third day he’d made up his mind to contact Rupert Giles and ask whether they might have a role for him, but before he could, his cellphone rang.

“Wesley-” she cut herself off, paused, inhaled. “I made a mistake. I’m so sorry. I was so afraid that none of it was real- that it had all been fabricated- that it wasn’t our choice. But it doesn’t matter. I love you, and I don’t want to care how it happened. I miss you. Please, can I come back so we can talk about this properly?”

“Of course,” he said in that same strangely smooth voice. Then shook his head. “No, wait…”

“No?” she asked in a squeak.

“No! Not no. Yes, god, I miss you. But it’s simply horrid here. I’ll come to you. If- if that’s okay?”

She giggled. “Yes. Hurry. We’ll put the kettle on.”

  
  


They stayed with the Burkle’s for five weeks in the end, long enough for initial hesitation to give way to familiar teasing as they tried to sneak off for quiet moments alone. Fred rang Angel several times, and he held his breath at each one, praying her firing order wouldn't change. It didn't, so she soundly seconded his plan to approach the slayers’ council and see where they could help. He made the call to Rupert, and a plan was made for them to travel to Cleveland and join the hellmouth team.  _ Has anyone heard from...?  _ No one had. No one seemed to be looking.

Several days before they were due in Ohio, he flew to LA alone to pack up the lives they’d walked out on. Her apartment first, pausing in the doorway as a shudder of memory crawled up his spine at the image of her shaking on that bed such a brief time ago. He boxed her things up quickly and shipped them to her parents, then moved on to his place.

The door wouldn’t open to his key, feeling like it was jammed along the frame somewhere. When he finally barged it open with a splintering of wood he found the edge had been  _ glued  _ shut, the lock torn off by whomever had previously shoved their way in. The carpet just inside bore a smattering of dark stains; dried blood? He slipped his gun free and flicked off the safety before calling out a cautious, “ _ Hello?” _ No answer, and the air carried that stale, empty feeling of a place uninhabited for weeks. 

There was a note on the counter:  _ Sorry about door. Taken car. _ No signature, unless you counted the smear of blood on a corner of it, but the penmanship was oddly precise and old-fashioned, with a hint of left-handed slope. He considered it for a moment, then mentally deleted the car from his inventory of ‘things that must be sorted’, tucking the paper inside his diary. 

  
  


Wolfram and Hart was strangely quiet when he walked in, none of the usual busy bustling and rushing. Charles greeted him with a new grimness that was both weary and wary, then said he had to be somewhere and  _ do keep in touch. _

Angel sat behind his desk, and for a moment Wesley thought he could actually see metaphysical anchors keeping him there. He perched on the edge of a chair and waited. And waited.

“How’s Fred?” Angel asked suddenly.

“She’s doing well… She gets tired easily, but it’s improving.”

“That’s good,” Angel said. Then rushed to add, “That she’s improving.”

Wesley nodded.

The door opened, and -  _ Eve  _ came walking in briskly with a bundle of folders in her arms. “Oh,” she said, spotting Wesley, “sorry, Angel, I didn’t realise you were with someone.” 

Wesley looked back and forwards between them in confusion, and Angel sighed. “Wesley, Awan, my new liaison to the Senior Partners. Awan, Wesley.” She put the folders on the desk, bobbed her head politely at Wesley, and left. “She doesn’t remember. They brain-wiped her. Or she really is new, and they just reused the mould. I can’t decide, and she genuinely doesn't know. Either way, she popped up a week later and started introducing herself.”

Wesley found himself shuddering for the second time that day. “Awan.. meaning iniquity?” he asked.

Angel shrugged. It looked like something he’d been doing a lot. He reached for the stack of folders, but paused and dropped his hand again before it got there. Right. Ghost. “I think Eve smashed the amulet. She was holding it in the cemetery, and there was a layer of powdered crystal there when I went back.”

He'd not thought he had any hope left, but some final thread of it fell away at this nail. But what would Eve have hoped to gain? Angel may well have smashed it himself at the end, had he known. “Why--” Things came together and a suspicion started to form. “It was Spike, wasn’t it? Who dusted you.”

Angel didn’t answer, turning his head away. A minute later he said, “I thought I told you not to come back.”

“I’m just clearing out our offices.” This whole place felt strangely and sinisterly ghostly, as if time and distance had removed a veil from his eyes to show it as it was. Why had they ever come? “I saw Gunn on the way in,” he noted.

“Won't go. Says he has a ‘duty’.”

Wesley lifted his eyebrows at him.

Angel sighed. “He says I need a lawyer. All that legal stuff… I sign things… ” He trailed off vacantly.

Wesley stood and moved to the doorway, pausing in it to look back. Angel was staring out of the window. “Goodbye, Angel,” he said.

“Goodbye,” Angel murmured sadly.

  
  


Harmony waved him over and explained with show of embarrassment that Fred’s things had been packed up on Angel’s orders weeks ago, and were only waiting for an address to ship them to. He asked her to load them into the taxi he was about to call, and carried on to his own office.

In his safe he found Eve’s note where the amulet should have been, and realised why Gunn had vanished earlier. He froze there for a long moment, images of hunting him down and making him pay racing past, then snapped to packing in a burst of speed, throwing together all the books he thought he could get away with and leaving almost everything else behind. Five minutes later he was climbing into a cab, heart thudding in his chest as though he were running from armed assassins rather than simply leaving an office for the last time. 

He faced resolutely forwards on the plane, and as the country beyond California spread out below, he vowed that never again would they set foot in LA.

  
  


They reshuffled their chattels and settled in to Cleveland. Fred threw herself into action gleefully, analysing reports from the various American slayers to build a new species database of the creatures they were encountering. The sociology fascinated her as much as the biology did - the realisation they were coming to of just how many supernatural creatures lived alongside humanity without ever being noticed. For his part, he was surprised to find himself suddenly both an official expert of the former council, and given hefty respect for having turned his back on them. He catalogued everything he'd managed to carry out of Wolfram and Hart, then moved on to inventorying the various resources scattered between the remaining watchers, and before long an online library was starting to come together. 

The next month Xander returned from a trip to collect a new girl and brought a tale of Spike talking to himself in a lonely gas station. 

“You don't think…” Fred said after he'd left. 

“He was telling the truth?” His truth, probably. Beyond that… “It's not possible.”

“She never was.” Fred waved her fingers, flicking his words away. 

“We never did work out what she was.”

“Good at holding on.”

“We need to find them,” he said. 

“At least they know where to find us now. What we need is to find something to offer them when they do.”

  
  


Giles was curt on the phone. No, he didn't know where Spike might go. No, of course Buffy couldn’t still be talking to him. Yes, they could ask around whoever they wanted, but it was pointless. The curtness felt like fingers digging into a cliff edge, like a skeleton of conventions carrying around a black hole.    


He was almost asleep that night when his cellphone rang. The caller ID showed London; 3am there, by his calculation. He snapped his phone open as he swung his feet out of bed, expecting supernatural trouble of some kind. But it was a subdued and rather slurry Giles who said his name and then mumbled something unintelligible. 

“Excuse me?” Wesley said. 

“Excuse…” Giles breathed. “I knew thish would happen… it would end badly if she wouldn't let him go. Tried to do something… she wouldn't listen. I wouldn't listen. Couldn't see. I've been a terrible failure, Wesley, I can't…” He dropped to almost a whisper and spoke too close to the phone, “I couldn't grieve for her again. I’m only human. It's not enough.” He sniffed hard, then continued in a more normal voice, “Ask Andrew. Boy has all these crackpot ideas.” He hung up.

  
  


Crackpot ideas, and some that were surprisingly simple - it turned out Andrew had been monitoring Dawn’s calls. “Not listening to them!” he hastened to add. “Because that would be wrong! But we pay her phone bill, and it lists every call… or it does on the plan we have. Anyway, Spike's moving around the eastern side of the country. Calls her every weekend, but the time varies.”

Wesley called Dawn on a pretence, and dropped it in at the end. “You haven't heard anything from Spike, have you? We're thinking about trying a tracking spell.”

“No!” squeaked Dawn. “I mean, no. I haven't. And you shouldn't. Let him come to you. Unless you've worked out how to fix her?”

“Not yet,” he sighed. “We're trying to work out how they got here at all. There's got to be something in the original spell. Anyway,  _ if  _ you happen to hear from him, tell him…” Thank you? Paltry. He owed them everything, and had nothing to give. “Tell him we're here whenever he's ready. And we're still trying to find something to help.”

“Okay.  _ If  _ I hear from him.” She made a humming noise. “I’ve been thinking, when Buffy came back - the last time, when Willow did it - the spell created this demon, too. But before they worked that out, Anya said something about it being like, a hitchhiker demon? Something that could grab on to someone moving between dimensions and travel with them. Could that be what she did?”

He almost said no, only a few species of demon could do that. But… Buffy wasn't human, was she? Or, not entirely. Maybe less than was normal for slayers; she'd told him how Spike’s chip had stopped recognising her after her previous resurrection. “Perhaps,” he said. “Thank you, I'll talk to you again…” He hung up and went to put the idea to Fred.

  
  


Andrew was energised by the concept, bursting with ideas and references down the phone line. But when talk came around to  _ summoning  _ something the rest of the way over, he cut to silence. “This is why you’re talking to me, isn’t it?” he said. “I don’t do that anymore.” 

“But-”

“No! These things always go wrong. What if we wind up with some deranged all-demon thing? Or the Second Evil? Or lose whatever’s left of her? And I don't think there's anything there _to_ summon.”

“I'm not asking you to go and do it. But do you think you could? In theory.” Wesley waited.

“If I was to… maybe... I might be able to try something.” Wesley could all but see the possibilities beginning to be drawn in the boy’s mind; he wouldn’t be able to leave the question alone. “But it would be if, and only if, the orders came from her.”

“Good man,” Wesley said, and left him to it. 

  
  


Time passed, then Andrew came back with the news that Spike seemed to have settled in New Orleans. Wesley used his new position as Regional Commander for North America to mark the whole lower half of the state out of bounds for the slayers. 

“Also,” said Andrew, “I think I know how to do that thing you were asking about. How to make her be here. And how someone might be able to make her real again. Let me talk to Fred.”

  
  
  



	20. The Girl In Question

 

 

 

 

 

** + **

 

“Hello?” Giles said for the third time.

_ He's definitely not going to hear you if you don't -say- something. And he'll hang up if you take much longer.  _ She tried to kick her mouth into action. “Umm...”

The silence on the line became sharp. “Buffy?” he asked. Then he rushed out, “No, I'm sorry. Who is this?”

“It's me, Giles,” she said. “Um, hi?”

“ _ Buffy, _ ” he choked out. “Are you- Can I-” Something scuffled in the background. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, still all… different, but it's me.”

“I've been looking for you. And for Spike. He's there too? Is he okay? I wanted- god, I've behaved abominably,” he gulped. 

“Yes, he's here,” she said, and through the swirl of feelings a protective edge glinted to undercut her tone. 

“Buffy, I… please, whatever you two need, it's yours. And- if you want- the others have come up with an idea. I couldn't- I told them they couldn’t ask her without permission from one of you. It's- it's all I've been able to do. Try to protect her.”

“Can we back up to the context there, Giles? Ask who, what?”

“Dawn. Andrew, Wesley, and Fred think they might be able to remake your physical self, by using Dawn.”

“ _ Using  _ her?” The edge sharpened and shifted direction, and Spike's posture tightened to hard menace. 

“Safely. As much as these things can be. Only… I didn't want her to get her hopes up. Or know if you'd want to allow her to be involved in any way. She's well out of all this.”

_ Yeah, and studying linguistics for a career in -human- languages, I’m sure.  _ She sighed. “We'd better come and get the full story. Where are you?”

“Pennsylvania. I can be in Cleveland in a few hours?” 

“We'll need longer.” Weeks, months, years, please. Things had just reached a rest-worthy plateau. She looked up at Spike, leaning his back against the opposite wall of the phone booth with his feet either side of hers. 

“I can send you a wire transfer - whether you want to come here or not - or if there's anything else I can do to assist you…”

“That’s not why I called.” 

“Yes. Of course.” He waited.

“Okay,” she said eventually. “Send it. You'll meet us there?”

“Yes. Whenever you're ready. I'll be there by morning.”

“Okay.” They made arrangements, then she hung up the phone. 

 

There was a half-smothered bounce in Spike’s step as they walked home, the hope he didn't dare give voice to. She wasn’t sure where her own feelings lay, whether her hope should be that whatever had been cooked up would work, or that they would decide not to risk trying it at all. She was just so tired of  _ change. _

“How are we going to get there?” she asked. 

“We'll get a car again… there's that one near Robson’s with a sign in the window. It'd do, and we could probably sort it this evening once we've picked up the transfer. Sleep, then leave fresh at sundown tomorrow.”

Car was good; they could turn it around at any moment. Not leaving until tomorrow night was good too. “I ever tell you that you're wonderful?”

“Mighta done. Better tell me again.”

“How about I show you?” She stopped and tugged his hand to turn him to her, thoughts of nibbling at the underside of his jaw teasingly before skipping on ahead filling her. But when she met his eyes she changed her mind, and leaned up to kiss him chastely on the lips instead. “Thank you, Spike. For everything,” she said quietly. 

His eyes crinkled at the corners and a soft smile teased up the edges of his mouth as he tilted his head to look at her in that way that made her feel like he could still hear her thoughts. She smiled back,  _ I love you, _ and he brought his free hand up to stroke her hair back from her cheek, fingers lingering there.  _ I love you too.  _ Then he squeezed her hand, and they turned and continued walking silently. 

  
  


** x **

 

Shouldn't have postponed it, really; should've got the leaving part over with immediately and a few hours driving under their belt before stopping for the day. Because now the leaving had been lingering in the corner for a long restless day as they waited for dark to come. The restlessness was mostly his, he suspected (and he could hardly blame her for being wide awake, given that she didn't  _ ever _ sleep). Some chunk of him was leaping about inside ready to celebrate, while the rest told it to  _ shut the bloody hell up and don't jinx things _ . And underneath it all, a little speck of smog that he was dodging before it could try to tell him that either way, everything would change once they went there.

Finally the sun took itself away, and he took the blood from the fridge and Mr Blordo from the table and his wallet - coat - keys; then looked around for a moment with an odd sense of inside-out déjà vu before shaking his head and opening the door for her. 

Once they hit the open road the familiar pattern came back; talk ebbing and flowing around word games and non-sequiturs, patches of comfortable silence and the soothing background hum of the engine. She sat facing him with her legs curled up on the seat, right there and visible beside him, and he kept having to reach over and  _ touch _ her again, because now he could. Eventually she settled her hand on his thigh and said she would touch so he could drive, and this new pattern was better.

They stopped in Nashville a few hours before dawn; halfway _ ,  _ he told her, and they found a motel. 

The room’s walls held framed prints of Johnny Cash and a sign advising that CDs were available from the office. 

“Man in black,” she called him. “Suppose you'll tell me he stole your style before the bleach and Idol?”

He shook his head. “Nope. All his own. Heard he'd died last year.” Hadn't had a passing thought to spare at the time; felt like apologising to him now for the oversight. 

“So did we,” she grinned.

“True,” he snorted. “Perhaps he's here somewhere. Better keep your ghostie eyes open today.”

“Nah. He's busy with Elvis,” she giggled, then schooled her face to seriousness. “Ghosts know these things.” He cocked a brow at her, smirking, and she tossed back her hair. “They're always sending me invites to their parties, but I've got a much better offer.” She stretched herself out on her stomach on the bed, and looked back over her shoulder at him. “Coming?” 

He slid his tongue across the edge of his bottom lip, and her gaze locked onto it helplessly, teasing shifting to hunger in her eyes. “ _ Yes…”  _ he purred at her, then toed off his boots and started unbuckling his belt slowly, precisely. Her eyes glittered up at him in the half-light as she unconsciously flicked her own tongue across her lip and reached for the hem of her shirt. 

For the next few hours, they forgot the world again. 

  
  


** + **

 

The Cleveland base was lit up when they arrived in the wee hours, soft yellow light thrown out in a foggy halo to the edge of the street and more diffusing from curtained windows upstairs and down. The building looked like an old boarding house, two levels of weatherboard and sash windows, a narrow porch ringing the upper floor and a big wooden door at the front. Spike had ignored the driveway to park across the street, and after he cut the engine on their rattly hatchback they studied the building silently, feeling it watching back. Deep breath, put on a confident face, climb out and come around the car to take his hand. 

She found herself facing the door squarely, Spike's hand dropped to move in front of him, light on her toes. Forced her heels to relax a little; these were her - well, maybe friends wasn't the right term anymore, but she didn't know what would be… people they had come to see, anyway, who probably meant him no harm. She rapped her knuckles on the door ( _ Oh good, solidity holding; _ she'd been afraid it might fall apart again here), and Giles swung it open as if he'd been waiting behind it.

There was an awkward moment where she stared at the deepened lines around his eyes and he half-extended two hands towards her before freezing them trembling in mid-air. Then he began to lower his hands again, and she stepped forwards between them, and something uncomfortable snapped and fell away as his arms closed around her. She pressed her nose into the shoulder of his tweed jacket and hugged him back carefully.  _ Giles smell.  _ For a long second she let it eclipse everything else, then she pulled back and straightened her spine and he ducked his head, but something had shifted. 

He looked past her on the doorstep to Spike at her back and stepped aside. “Please, Spike, come in,” he said, and his voice carried entreaty under the formality of invitation. Spike inclined his head ever-so-slightly, and Giles led them into a sort of living room. 

Fred was less restrained. She dived on them both with a shout of excitement, her face becoming one beaming smile as she shoved them together in a fast, elbow-ey hug. “Look at you!” she said squealed to Buffy as she pulled back, then flicked a glance over her shoulder at Wesley. “You can, right? It's not just me?” 

“I can indeed,” Wesley smiled.

_ Phew.  _

The room was large enough, plenty of space to move around the couches and side tables, but it seemed very full of  _ people _ with the five of them in there and everyone full of jumbled words. For a second the option of backing out and hopping in their car to leave again looked very attractive. 

“Tea?” Wesley asked her, then blushed. “Sorry, out of practice- unless- you do look remarkably corporeal, we didn't expect…”

She smiled, feeling confidence build at his fluster. “No, I don't drink. Spike?”

“We also have scotch?” Wesley added. 

Spike shook his head. 

Giles and Wesley were eyeing each other uncomfortably, and she felt like she should be stepping in to delineate roles, maybe start off the apologies. But dammit, she didn’t bloody come here to be sorry. “So what’s this plan?” she asked instead, the words jumping out unintentionally harsh. Spike’s hand in hers twitched minutely in amusement, then suggested backing off. They moved to sit on the nearest couch. Giles demurred to Wesley with a bob of his head and sat down himself. 

And Wesley on to Fred, “Go on. It's your thing.”

Fred blushed and stammered, “It was a team effort really-” 

Buffy fixed her eyes on Fred and found a calmer voice to ask again, “What's the idea?”

“Okay,” said Fred, and seemed to flick an inner switch to Full Power! as she started speaking again, “You’re not a ghost, because you’re not fully mortal. Demons can’t  _ be  _ ghosts. They’re either here, or they’re not; there’s no in between. And you're here. What you  _ are - _ what Spike was - is a kind of host-less demon.”

“But…”

“You still have all your parts, human soul, slayer essence; they're bound together. The only thing lacking is your own mortal body for it all. Demonic energy only you takes you so far in appearing in and affecting this world without one, and if you're not tied to a physical formn- or maintained via magic - then you'll fall back through to wherever you were brought from. If we make you a corporeal body, which we can, you'll be back to normal.”

The  _ but  _ had multiplied and joined up with  _ whys  _ and  _ hows;  _ it was hard to choose one. 

Luckily, Fred only took a breath before continuing. “Sorry, let me go back. Okay, so the amulet was charged up to pull a demonic spirit through dimensions and hold it here in ours without a physical form to go into. And when it did, you hitchhiked right along with Spike. We think it might have been designed to hold for the length of Angel's twelve-month contract, but with two of you draining the power it ran down faster. Whoever made that flashbox - and we have our suspicions - must have known that would happen even sooner if they didn't act.”

“So what happened when the amulet smashed?” she asked. Other than the terrifying sense of falling she'd felt.

Fred pursed her lips. “This is conjecture only, of course, and entirely beyond the rules of things, but I think when you were released from the amulet, you somehow made Spike your physical host. Not completely - obviously you haven't ejected him from it - ” she gave them apologetic grin, “- but somehow you've been able to share enough to hold you here.”

Somewhere while they'd listened her fingers had tightened to a crushing grip on Spike's, and she forced them to relax. “Okay,” she said slowly, “so where does Dawn come in?”

“We need your blood, to make you a new body. Or re-make your old one, rather. And hers contains yours.”

Time seemed to slow down as red fire surged up within her and all the lightbulbs in the room began to flicker, dimming and over-brightening. Beside her she sensed Spike move sinuously, the barely-perceptible coiling of muscles and tiny adjustments that signalled  _ dangerous  _ even without slayer senses.

“Not like that,” Giles whispered quietly. “Not again. Only a drop.”

She looked from him back to Fred, who hurried on quietly. “We only need a drop, less, really, just enough for the magic to copy a cell from. I'd never suggest hurting her.”

Of course not. This was  _ Fred,  _ looking rattled with her big eyes and as upset as she was frightened. Buffy inhaled slowly, and the lights levelled out. “Sorry,” Buffy whispered, “touchy subject.” 

Everyone was quiet for a few moments, then Fred plunged ahead again. “We can take a drop of blood from Dawn, speed up the cell replication with magic, then tie it to your host-less self. Your own energy will direct and pull everything together, and as long as the blood is fresh, it'll spark to living life, too. It might take a few more seconds than Spike's flash, but you'll have your own body back.”

“Risks?” she asked, turning to look at each of them and settling on Giles. “These things are never without them.” 

Spike's finger twitched;  _ Yes, good.  _

“None we can ascertain,” Giles said. “The heavy lifting was done with the amulet, this is only a relatively minor spell.”

“If it fails?” Spike asked. 

“Then she'll still be the host-less demon spirit she is now,” Giles answered. 

They looked at Wesley, and he nodded confirmation. 

“We can do it as soon as you're ready,” Giles said. “We'll just need time to get Dawn and Andrew here.” He glanced at his watch. “We could contact her now; it's just gone 9 a.m. there. I'll let Andrew know and he can fly out today.” He made a move to stand. 

“Stop,” she said quickly, raising her hand. “We haven't said yes. We need… need to think about it.”

He pursed his lips, but sunk back down.

Fred jumped to her feet. “You've been driving all night! Why are we doing this now? Come on, I'll find you a room. There's plenty of guest ones upstairs.” She gave Wesley a look as she walked to the door, and he turned to ask Giles something about Dawn’s schedule. Giles hadn’t answered when they left the room. 

  
  


Fred paused in the hall and asked if they wanted to bring their car in, bags in; they didn’t. She led them to a room overlooking the street, then pointed out extra bedding in the closet and the room at down the hall where they were most likely to find her. 

“Good setup,” Buffy said, casting curious looks everywhere. “You live here?”

“Yes. There's usually at least a few slayers staying too, but you've picked a quiet week; the local team have taken some of the trainee watchers for a kind of boot camp.”

Again that sick sense of neglected duties. “How are they?” she asked quietly. “The girls?”

“They amaze me,” Fred said, something of genuine awe in the words. “They're all so strong - I mean, obviously with the super strength and all - but they all have this sort of fierce determination at times. It gets tricky when they disagree,” - Buffy snorted; could picture that well enough - “but there's so much power and conviction to them when they fight together.” She paused and considered Buffy. “And they seem… right, somehow. Fulfilled. I can't imagine any of them wanting to be different. They're not all working - some of them want nothing to do with us - but the ones who aren't seem to be finding good outlets. We're monitoring them as much as they're comfortable with.”

Buffy nodded slowly. 

“Buffy,” Fred said, “I've been waiting to thank you. For saving me, and for being there - I was so scared-”

“Hey. It was nothing,” she said. “It's good to see you looking better. I hope that man's treating you right?” 

Fred blushed again, suitably distracted from further thanks. “He is.” Spike had sat on the bed, and now he stretched out on his back with his arms crossed behind his head. “I'll leave you to it,” Fred said to them both. “Come and find one of us if you need anything. Oh, I forgot to show you the kitchen, we have blood in the fridge if you're hungry?”

“I'm good,” Spike answered, so she gave directions just in case, said her goodnights, and left, closing the door behind her. 

“Come on,” Spike said with his eyes closed, crooking his arm out for her to fit into. She lay on her back beside him and used his arm for a pillow, and his fingers drew circles down her shoulder as he waited. 

“I'm sick of change,” she said eventually. 

“Unavoidable. Only sure thing in life and all.”

“We're not alive,” she teased. 

“No, but you should be,” he said soberly. 

“Do I have to be?” She rolled over to lie on her stomach and watch his face, finding him watching her in turn. “I mean, I'd have to, like, eat food and stuff. Mortality’s so inconvenient.”

“No,” he said. “No. If you want to turn them down, I'll hold onto you forever. You know I will.”

She did. But there was something in his face that she couldn't make sense of, a sort of sad acceptance. “But you don't want to,” she whispered. 

He shifted around until they were face-to-face and settled a hand on her back. “Buffy. I love what we have. If you want to stay like this, I'll be happy. But… it isn't real. It can't ever  _ be _ properly real while you're stuck to me. You're not free to make your own choices.”

“You  _ are _ my choice,” she said, and her voice came out all whimpery instead of the firm stating she'd meant for. She bit her lip to try and stop it wobbling. 

“I know. Sorry, luv, listen to me. Love is real. What we feel, that's real. More real than anything.” He pulled her closer against him. “But I never wanted to own you - you deserve to belong to yourself. Have to. You can’t give yourself to me like this. And I can't… I can't keep it up forever. Sooner or later I'm going to slip up somewhere, let you down, and you should have the choice to walk away if you want to.”

She pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him gently, lips parting softly as he returned it and their tongues met. Hands wove around each other, one of hers sliding into the two-tone little curls at the base of his neck that she loved to stroke. When their lips separated, she rested her head up under his chin, and he held her to him, stroking her hair and down to her back. 

“I'll go and talk to Giles,” she said eventually. “Get the ball rolling.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Yeah, it's right. Thank you.” She squeezed him to her again before climbing up. 

“Want me to come with?” he asked. 

“No… you may as well avoid the awkward where you can. I have to have a talk with him. Don't go anywhere though?”

He lifted his brow at her, and she looked down and smiled self-deprecatingly. Then he said it anyway, “I won't.”

Her smile turned grateful, and she went to find Giles. 

  
  


** x **

 

The room became empty without her in a way home never did, making him feel like an intruder. He stood up and almost went after her, but no, better to let her have this talk without Rupes casting side glances at him the whole time and everyone getting their weapons out. Kitchen, Fred had said, at the other end of downstairs, so he went to check it out. 

Wesley was in there, sitting at a large dining table while the kettle ticked as it warmed on the stove. Spike paused in the doorway, then took a seat at the opposite end. 

“You didn't sign your note,” Wesley said.

“Yeah… was a crazy day. Sorry. Car’s gone. Switched it up in Canada pretty early on.”

Wesley shrugged. “Glad it was useful. I'd have tried to do more, were I there.” Wesley shuffled in his seat. “We've known where you were for a while. Didn't want to push ourselves on you empty-handed; only plotted out the final details of this last week.” He looked down, then met Spike's eyes. “I'm sorry, Spike. I owe you two everything, and I haven't been there for you.”

“You were where you were needed,” Spike said. “And… we kinda had to run. Shoulda been in touch, but… I dunno. Crazy times.” He cocked his head to the ceiling. “Fred seems good.”

“She is.” The furrow faded from Wesley’s brow, and he looked almost boyish for a moment before he refocused. “If there is ever anything-”

“You really think you can fix her?” he asked. 

“Yes,” he said somberly. “We can.”

Spike nodded. “That’s everything.”

  
  


When he heard the door down the hall open, he stuck his head out of the kitchen and scanned her face as she came towards him - resolved and calm in that slightly withdrawn manner, but with something eased inside too. He lifted his eyes at her, and she nodded once, expression already unconsciously melting into a smile at him. 

She joined them in the kitchen, and Wesley offered her tea again. “You’re out of practice,” she said, then pushed her bottom lip out. “Guess that's what happens when we run out on you for six months.”

Wesley waved a hand at Spike. “Explained. Forget it.”

She nodded. “Giles says everyone will be here by tomorrow morning.”

“We could do it that evening then, if you like? It should be easiest at dusk, when your demonic energy is highest.”

She drew her eyebrows down at that, thinking, then flicked Spike a glance; he'd noted it too, just never stopped to think on it. 

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. Thirty-six hours-ish then. Good.” 

  
  


** + **

 

“Wait!” she shouted. “I'm not going to be all with the nudity, am I? Can we kill the lights or something if that’s the case?”

“No nakedness,” Andrew said, setting his drum down on the floor in front of him. “One hundred percent pre-roasting slayer, clothing and accessories included. Unless you got naked down there after everyone left?”

“No! Why would I… nevermind. Okay, carry on.”

Xander picked up a folded blanket from the back of the couch and shook it open, then bundled it on his lap and sat forwards. She gave him a grateful look from her spot, standing alone in the middle of the circle which had been drawn on the living room carpet.

“Accessories…” she said to Andrew, “like the scythe?” She raised it in her hand to show him.

He leapt back. “Watch the materialising weapons!” Then leaned forwards again, eyes wide. “Oh, that is so totally cool!” he breathed. 

“Sorry,” she said, lowering it. “Should I hold it, maybe?” 

Everyone but Spike was still staring at the glinting blade by her thigh in surprise; he gave her a cheeky grin.

“You could… try, I suppose,” Andrew said, looking to Wesley and Giles. 

Giles was still gaping, but shook it off to say, “Yes, yes you should probably… I thought it was lost. Willow tried to locate any essence of it back at the crater before she left. Is it-” he cut himself off.

“It works well enough,” she told him, turning it in her hand, “and it's sort of different, somehow, from the other things I make visible.”

He looked like he wanted to come over and inspect it properly, but restrained himself. Andrew picked up his drum again and began beating it slowly with one hand.

“Stop!” she shouted a few seconds later. “What if you get the wrong demon and Spike ends up in my body?” 

Andrew put down his drum. “I'm calling you by name. You haven't started using a different one?”

“No.” She pressed her lips together briefly, then burst out again, “And you're  _ certain _ it's not going to hurt Spike?”

“ _ Yes,” _ he said, looking affronted. 

“Okay. Okay, sorry. Right, I'm ready.” She tossed back her hair and took a deep breath, and Andrew began drumming again. 

The drumbeats began to reverberate around the room, pulsing through her head in a steady rhythm. Andrew began murmuring a phrase in what sounded like Latin, bouncing the syllables with the beat of the drum, over and over until suddenly the rhythm shifted to a double beat as he called her name. 

Sitting outside the circle with his back to the wall, Spike made a sudden yelp-growling sound and half jumped towards her as she felt something grab her by the centre of gravity and  _ pull _ . 

“Let her go,” hissed Wesley from behind her, “ _ quickly, dammit.” _

Spike’s eyes were fixed hard on hers and tight with pain at the edges, the same pain that was wrenching through her somewhere in the drumbeat and calling. She held his gaze firmly for an endless moment, unblinking as the pain prickled her eyes, and then answered the question with a tiny movement of her head. He echoed the nod, jaw clenched tight, and then forced his fingers to open from their tight-fisted grip and blinked hard. 

Everything flipped and spun - yet didn't - and then she was standing in the circle feeling trapped in place and frozen through. Spike’s eyes hadn’t moved from hers, and she kept all of her focus on them as people moved around and sounds came and something wet touched her on the forehead and then- something peculiar happened. 

Spike's nostrils flared suddenly,  eyes dilating, and he seemed to be pricking an ear towards her. She listened too, and realised that the sound of the drumbeat had gone, but the pulsing beat of it remained somewhere inside of her. Spike’s gaze shifted downwards, and she followed it, and saw the familiar bloodstain on her shirt again. She lifted the edge of her shirt and saw the wound, and poked her fingers at it. More blood seeped out, and she jerked her fingers away as  _ pain  _ flashed out from it too, then poked at it again in growing excitement. “Look!” she said. “Look! I'm  _ bleeding _ _!” _ And she started laughing insanely, but couldn't make herself stop.

  
  


** x **

 

By the time she'd calmed down enough to let them bandage the gaping hole through in her side, she was yawning her little head off and moving sluggishly as she sat back on the couch. Wesley brought her a glass of juice and a bottle of water, and she hugged him and thanked him again as she had been everyone. She drank half the juice dutifully, then stopped and asked him, “Hey, where's my tea you keep offering?” Poor Wes was muddled enough to start apologising before she shook her head at him and went back to the juice.

A look went around the room, and everyone else started yawning and standing, mumbling about  _ jet lag  _ and  _ long day _ . She saw straight through them, but let him take her hand and pull her to her feet too, and after another round of hugs she picked up the scythe and they went to their room. 

He pulled the blankets back for her and tried not to fuss over her bandage when she stripped her stained shirt off, then they were in bed and her eyes grew wide. 

“I don't want to sleep,” she whispered suddenly, “I  _ don't  _ sleep. I watch. How-”

“ _ Shush,”  _ he said. “You need to. I'll watch, okay? It's my turn.”

“You'll be tired,” she said.

“I won't. It's only evening, anyway. Go to sleep, pet.”

She didn't agree so much as seem to find it too tiring to argue further, but finally she snuggled her head into his shoulder and sighed in contentment as her muscles relaxed and she slept. 

He lay there listening to her soft breathing and feeling her pulse beating out where she pressed against his chest. She carried long-forgotten scents of Sunnydale in her skin and clothing, a surprisingly nostalgic pang lancing through him every time his nose picked out Revello Drive under the spice of her blood and the dust of the hellmouth. Hellmouth-scent led his mind back to those last moments down there, to his wordless single-minded plea to anyone that might listen to  _ save her, please,  _ only save her and he would pay anything. She twitched slightly in her sleep, fingers flickering, and he murmured to her automatically,  _ “hush,”  _ and then it hit him. She was saved. 

  
  



	21. Power Play

 

 

 

** + **

 

Things were… solid, when she woke up the next afternoon. Her body felt so  _ heavy,  _ and she tensed away from Spike on the bed uncomfortably. 

He blinked at her, something hurt in the edges of his eyes, and murmured, “Okay.”

She didn't know if he was asking, or telling, or accepting, and everything was strange. Then the answer came if he was asking, so she said it - “I was squashing you. I'm heavy.”

Hurt changed to confusion, and then understanding and soft amusement. He pulled her back against him. “Nonsense. Not squashing me. Got this whole body to myself now, don't I?”

No lessening to her odd confusion, but she sunk back against him gratefully and sent her brain probing out along all these myriad paths of sensation. 

“I didn’t realise it would be so different,” she said a while later. “I mean, I thought I was fairly solid already. I'd forgotten…” Details of the way his skin yielded to her. The thrumming shift of blood in response to emotion. The heat radiating out from her side where slayer-healing was racing to knit things back together from that sword slicing through. Clawing in her belly;  _ blood,  _ she thought first,  _ we're hungry  _ \- then her own blood racing to her cheeks as she mentally corrected herself -  _ breakfast. People food.  _ Some tension underneath that, discomfort; more blood flushing her cheeks as she worked it out and pulled back from him again, stammering to preempt him thinking wrongly. “Just going- need to pee.” She jumped up and stopped to look at him. “I’ll be right back.” 

Across the hall was a bathroom, and after rediscovering the relief of emptying her bladder, she studied herself in the mirror. Her hair was awful. It, for one, had been much nicer yesterday - flowing in soft shimmery waves that never really went out of place and certainly never looked dull and hellmouth-grimy like this. The cut over her eyebrow had dried to an ugly red scab, and her cheeks looked flatter, bonier than she remembered from her reflection of late. Her eyes were different, too. Shadowed underneath, bloodshot pink, and  _ tired  _ looking, which wasn't fair when she'd finally slept, and for a whole night and most of a day, at that. 

She looked around. The shower held an array of single-serve bathroom products; there were fluffy towels folded on a shelf. The door had a slide bolt, but that didn't seem like enough somehow. Everything had gone weird and scary. She opened the door enough to look across to their room, where Spike sat on the edge of the bed, looking back at her. “I'm going to have a shower,” she said quietly. “Can you… make sure no one comes?” She dropped her eyes at the end, feeling stupid.

“Course,” he said just as quietly. He shifted his weight slightly, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his hands between them. 

She smiled and ducked her head. “Thanks.”

  
  


She dried herself and redressed in the clothes Fred had lent her, then opened the door. He was exactly where she'd left him, looking like he hadn't moved a muscle. “You didn't have to stay frozen,” she said, embarrassed now. 

“Didn't,” he said. “Nipped to the pub, had a round with Wes, and snuck back before you'd done.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

  
  


Her stomach prompted them towards the kitchen, where she gazed into the fridge for a while before taking out a bag of blood and putting it in the microwave for him. 

Xander came bounding into the room, then stopped in place and stilled the bounding. “Hey, it's the Buffster,” he said, clapping his hands together with a nervous titter. He'd arrived with Dawn the previous morning, and somehow in the mass of planning and her and Spike trying to avoid too much crushing attention they'd hardly said more than two words. 

“Yep,” she said, “in the flesh.”

Xander tittered again, then perked up. “Oh! Hey! I was just about to order pizza for me and Dawnie. Wanna join in on the cheesy goodness?” He pulled a takeaway menu off the fridge and took refuge in scanning it. “They have spicy wings?” he asked, looking at Spike.

“Yes,  _ please, _ ” she said, relieved. “Um, could you choose mine? I don't think I know what I like.” She quirked her lip. “Though I do know not to let Dawn tell me.”

“Sure can,” Xander said, picking up the cordless phone. 

While Xander made their order, Spike took the blood bag out of the microwave, shook it up, snicked the corner open with his teeth and drank it from the bag. Then he excused himself to find Dawn, leaving her with Xander. 

They both opened their mouths, paused, then closed them again. She wanted to apologise for hiding from everyone, but where would she start with explaining? They'd all hidden themselves first.

Xander spoke suddenly. “God, I'm so sorry, Buff. I thought we had more time- that Willow and Giles would make with the research and work out some last-minute saving roll, like we always do. Then Willow had skipped off through a portal and Giles wouldn't talk about it and no one knew where either of you were, and I was standing in Wales going,  _ ‘But…’ _ .” -He held his hand up to stop her interrupting- “I wi- ...I should have been there. Even if I couldn't do anything. I'm supposed to be the  _ friend, _ ” he ended quietly. 

She watched him, her defensive anger fading away as his eye glistened at her shoes lonelily. “I'm sorry too, Xan. We couldn't… it got dark, for a while there. There wasn’t any room.”

Xander nodded. “I get it. I haven’t been myself, either. It seems harder to bounce back each time, doesn't it? Or like we come back more different.” He sniffed, then switched to a lighter tone, “I ordered your favourite and six other pizzas, so you can try them all and work it out. Plus wings, chilli garlic bread, and fries.”

“For three people and a vampire?” 

He shrugged. “Figured you'd be pretty hungry after all this time. And Dawn can really eat.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

All the pizza was her favourite, and she told Xander he was a wise friend indeed.

  
  


The next night the local team of slayers came out of hiding and flooded into the house; she'd met exactly none of them before, and felt like the parent who’d nipped out for milk and never returned. They didn't think much of her mythical self in person, she knew; her smallness and her tiredness and her wariness where they were full of eager.  _ Spar with them,  _ Dawn said,  _ show them you could waste them all.  _ But no, let them have their image, they'd learn soon enough. 

While they caught up with Wesley and reports, she escaped to the back lawn with Spike. He lay on the grass on his back and spread his coat wide for her to join him, and they drank the quiet dark together.

Some time later - little, long, she didn’t know or care to - Giles stepped out of the back door and stood looking at them with his hands in his pockets. She pulled herself up to sit cross-legged, and Spike rose up on his elbows casually. 

Giles said, “I wondered if I could have a word with you, Spike. That's not a request for privacy; rather, to speak.”

“It's a free world,” Spike answered. “Or so they say.”

Giles looked at the horizon for a while, choosing his words. Then he stepped onto the edge of the lawn and sat down on the dewy grass. “I need to apologise. I… I saw only what you could take from me. And then, what you took.”

Spike's fingers clenched on her elbow, and he hissed a whispered,  _ “Let him finish.”  _

She bit back her words and movement, and he sat up properly. 

“Thank you, Buffy,” Giles said mildly. Then continued to Spike, “I never saw what you gave us, because it was missing what I loved dearest. What value a world of grief?” He took off his glasses and held them in his lap. “And I never saw what you could give us, because I was too caught in mourning the missing life of her. I cursed fate for my powerlessness, because I was too weak to repudiate it. You weren't. And I owe you my thanks. For the world, and for the world it is today.” He stood slowly. “Thank you,” he said, and turned to go back inside. 

Spike watched him until he reached the door, then said, “Welcome.”

Giles paused and bowed his head. Then waved his glasses with a self-deprecating smile. “I should throw these away. Haven't seemed to do me any good.”

  
  


** x **

 

A couple of nights later, Buffy, Xander, Dawn and Fred were immersed a vicious game of cards in the living room when Wesley retreated to the safety of the library. Spike patted Buffy on the knee, reminded her not to stake the competition, then followed him there.

He closed the door behind him and wandered over to the window, crossing his arms to stare out at the dark yard. “How’s things back in LA?” he asked the glass. “Someone must keep you up with the news.”

“Charles. Phones me whenever there’s anything we might want to know.”

“Still there, then.”

“Yes. Won't leave Angel to make god-only-knows-what decisions on his own. We got Connor and his family out last month though. With the truth in front of them they agreed to a sort of witness protection. He… seems to be managing.” Wes moved to a shelf and started straightening books quickly.

“And Angel's contract expired… you sure they haven't enrolled him for round two?”

“They must be confident that the lure of possible corporeality one day will keep him under thumb.” Wesley kept his voice light, but his hands had stilled, and the air was growing weighted.

“It's a hard thing, not feeling,” Spike mused softly. “No taste, no scent… No  _ touch _ , not even from yourself. Lot of things a man’d do to change it.”

“Indeed.”

“We'd have to go there for it, wouldn't we?”

“Yes.” Wesley came to stand next to him, staring out through the lone human reflection. He spoke quietly, “I wouldn't ask it of you. It'd be more than he deserves, after last year.”

He nodded, and mentally double-checked his decision before he spoke it. “Lucky for him, people seem to get more than they deserve.” He turned to look at Wesley. “But I oughta make  _ you _ explain it to Buffy.”

  
  


** + **

 

She wanted to say a blunt no, ah ahh, no way, buster (actually, she'd said all of those in the first minute of discussion, but he'd ignored them as the knee-jerk response they were). Now she dropped her head into her hands to run her fingers through her hair, and groaned out her frustrated anger. She looked up again to glare at Spike through her arms, needing to vent the edge of this in a round of quick-fire bickering. But he looked distracted beneath the surface, pulled in different directions with bad feelings waiting in all of them. She knew they were going. He knew they were going. There was nothing to be done about the worrying other than going and getting it done. She poked her tongue out at him.

Then, she took charge. Fred hadn't been asked; would she be willing, or did they need to hunt up another scientific genius for her to explain the method to? There  _ were _ no other Freds. But she didn't need asking - had assuredly seen the possibility before Spike had, and probably would have pointed it out if he'd taken too long to get there. And Andrew was more than eager, of course. With Wesley, that made up the host-less demon into reformed host team - summoning, bloodprep and magic casting. Herself as one-woman security/bodyguard team - don't you even  _ think  _ about trying to cut me out of this, she'd told Spike. And he to provide the blood - from Angelus to Dru, from Dru to him, and still carrying a trace of the mystical signature required (and she  _ really  _ didn't want to think too much about that part).

No extras, though everyone in the building was offering their skills. Dawn and Xander would fly home tomorrow; Dawn had missed enough classes already, and with Giles to stand in for Wesley here someone needed to get back on UK soil in case of trouble there. 

_ When? _ everyone asked;  _ we don't have to rush.  _ But once plans were made they were open to getting out, and she wanted to get this over with. “As soon as poss,” she told Spike. “Then can we please go  _ home _ ?”

“Gods yes,” he breathed, looking as done with the hubbub here as she was. He put a palm on her side, nudging into the tenderness beneath the already closed-over wound. “But give yourself a few more days, yeah?”

“Alright,” she grumbled. 

  
  


They patrolled that night, a mingle of graveyard sightseeing and active searching for trouble. There didn’t seem to be any around; according to Wesley this hellmouth was a tiny thing, a mere speck on the map by comparison with the messy ink blot that had been Sunnydale. Trailing the way back through the last cemetery, she paused to study a giant marble lion standing regal over an elevated grave. Spike came to a stop beside her, cocking his head to mirror the lion. “Angel made his choices,” she said quietly. “You don't have to do this.”

“I know. But I can.” He sounded earnest and apologetic; hated to be choosing to take them back to the place that had chained and tortured them for so long. Maybe Angel could take his corporeality wishes and stick them where the sun don't shine, and they could deal with the outcome of any evil lawyerly deals if or when they happened. But… that wasn't who they were.

She looked up at him and smiled. “I know. Just wanted to remind you that I do.” 

“ _ You _ can still say no,” he said. 

“I know,” she said again, and took his hand to keep walking. 

  
  


They flew to San Diego and picked up a rental car, neither herself nor Spike willing to come down into that LA sphere in a plane. Spike drove and she rode scythe-gun; any tingling up the back of either of their necks and he would spin the car around without pause. At the edge of their former boundary she took his hand in hers and kissed the back of it hard, then they were in and slowing down.

Wesley called Gunn and asked him to meet at a park near the border, telling him he'd come across some sort of treaty contract between two demon clans and could use some help deciphering it on his way past the city. Gunn sounded nervous beneath his  _ certainly, of course;  _ probably suspected this was retribution come knocking at last. To his credit, he came anyway, pulling up in a taxi at the small park they'd chosen and waving it off. 

She went to greet him first, and his anxiety was forgotten at the sight of her, face splitting into probably the biggest smile she'd ever seen on him. “Yep!” she told him proudly, “fully re-bodied slayer here.” His hands came out to shake, pat, touch and confirm what he saw, and she held her own out for a proper hug. And  _ ooh, _ that man could hug, warm solid friendship in every inch of his muscles. She was glad they'd come.

She checked him for weapons and told him to keep his ready, then led him back to the group. There was a round of looks and tightly determined smiles between the ex- Angel Investigations crew members, a shaky moment for Gunn at greeting Fred, then Wesley shifted to business mode and began explaining their proposal. They would summon Angel here and recorporealise him, then hope he'd have the sense to leave LA before the Partners slapped another contract in front of him. And, hey, she piped up to add, did Charles want a job? Seemed like they were desperately in need of a lawyer on the Slayer’s council, and his translation skills even more so as they began forming understandings with the more peaceful demon species. 

Gunn considered the lot, grim-faced. “The Partners won’t be happy,” he said. “They've put a lot of effort into driving the spirit out of Angel since we came there. But… perhaps they've done it too well. There's a real sense of disappointment in his lack of anger as time goes on. They may well accept the loss in the immediate future - it's the long game they're interested in.” He paused and looked around at them all before addressing Buffy, “Or, they may come at you with everything they have.”

She turned her eyes to Spike at her side, and they searched each other silently.  _ Last chance.  _ Then she turned back to Gunn. “Let them. We don't compromise.”

Charles laughed. “You crazy thing. Okay, let's do this. I don't suppose I've got time to pack?”

“Nope,” she said. “Soon as we can get it done, we're goners. We'd love you to come with us - and we'll buy you new stuff - but we can't tell you what to do.”

He grinned. “Oh, I'm coming alright. I'll squeeze into the trunk if necessary.” His face became grave again. “If you're serious about the job offer…”

Wesley spoke guardedly, “We are.”

Gunn nodded. “I'll do whatever I can. I need to- need to help people, with this.”

“You will,” Fred told him. Wesley nodded. 

  
  


This time she was able to watch with more detached interest, impressed with the way the three of them worked together to mark out the nine-foot-wide summoning circle and check in with each other for readiness. Fred handed Spike a beaker and pointed out a line halfway up its side; he lifted his eyebrows at her. 

“Sorry,” she said, “I’ll need more than Dawn’s finger-prick. Pulling the needle from the haystack here, so give us a good chunk of hay to search.”

He rolled his eyes with a long-suffering sigh, then waved off her offered knife and slipped out his fangs to pierce the hollow under his thumb cleanly and start filling the cup. She patted his shoulder and whispered, “Brave boy,” earning another eye roll, though this one was more affectionate. 

Andrew picked up his drum, and Spike handed the beaker off to Fred before moving around to the opposite side of the circle and hefting the battle axe he’d brought along. Buffy saluted him with the scythe, then shook out her shoulders and settled to watching the open ground to his back. 

Fred added things to the beaker, stirred it up, then dropped a magnet into it. She gave Andrew the thumbs up, and he started his drumming. 

They'd debated how to call Angel - how many syllables there were to his ‘true’ name, the one his spirit would recognise and answer. Spike had suggested asshole, wanksock,  _ Liam? _ she offered nob-end and turd-nugget in turn, grinning as Giles spluttered and Spike guffawed. Then Spike shot back with ‘un-dense dead-guy’, and Giles’ spluttering turned to a look of real concern. “Vocab,” she grinned at him, “we’ve expanded.” Then she sighed and got back to the point. “The whole thing: Ang-el-us. We all know that's got to be it.” Grim nods; they did.

Andrew called it out now to the beats of his drum, and in a waver of the shadows, Angel flickered into the middle of their circle, stumbling in place where the summons held him. He was facing Andrew, and drew his brows down slowly as he pulled himself up into a steadier posture. Andrew kept the beat going steadily with one hand and waved quickly with the other. “Hi. Uh, Angel.” 

Angel looked to his left first, and all but jumped back as his eyes landed on Spike. 

Spike stood several feet back from the edge of the circle, all casual swaggery grace with his axe resting against one shoulder and one thumb hooked in the edge of his front pocket. “Howdy,” he said, smirking. 

Angel's frown deepened. “What do you want, Spike?” he growled. 

“Bit of gloating,” he answered, the smirk spreading into a grin. 

She rolled her eyes. 

“Of course,” Angel ground out. “Finally learnt to properly enjoy the results, have you?”

Spike’s mirth vanished into disgust. “No, you tosser. Come to help the helpless ghostie, haven't we?”

Angel finally noticed Wesley nearby, then spun in a circle, sweeping his gaze over them all before whirling back to Buffy. 

“Hello, Angel,” she said calmly. 

“Buffy…” 

“Yep, that's me.” She waved a hand down herself. “All re-living and everything.”

“....how?” he asked. 

“The ‘me’ is all thanks to Spike.” She threw Spike a quick smile, and almost got distracted by the one he gave back. “The body was a communal effort.” She indicated the de-ghosting team with a tilt of her head. “So, then Spike thought we ought to come and offer one to your  _ leftovers.” _ She hadn't thought she cared, but the sharpness that slipped into the word pointed to the suppressed sting it held.  _ Dammit _ , she'd spoken up to try and defuse anything brewing, not add to it. 

Thankfully, Angel looked away at that, shame seeping into his stance. “I didn’t mean it,” he mumbled. 

“Good,” she snapped. Spike’s eyes were glinting. Andrew’s were ping-ponging back and forth eagerly, and the tempo of his drum had increased slightly. 

“Can we move this along?” Fred cut in, holding up her beaker. “Things on a timer here. I'm sure Spike would prefer not to have to donate again.”

She flushed and shifted her weight back from where she'd been subconsciously leaning forwards on her toes. “Gunn. Explain.”

He did, and Angel looked even more confused. “Unconditionally?” he asked Gunn again; Gunn nodded. Angel looked around, stalling on Buffy again before turning to Spike. “Why?”

“What Champions do, isn't it?” Spike said evenly.

“I guess so,” Angel said quietly. “Okay, what do I need to do?”

  
  
  



	22. Not Fade Away

 

 

 

 

 

** + **

 

They hit a snag when Fred tried to start painting the blood onto Angel. “Can’t you be at least a  _ little  _ solid?” she asked. But no, the best he'd managed was to be able to lift a pen while at his desk. So she spread the blood out on the ground instead and made him sit in it. Wesley started his chant, then everyone else held their breath. 

The chanting rolled on… and on. She started fiddling at her lip with her teeth; maybe she hadn't been all with the clock-watching, but things had definitely seemed faster when they'd done this for her. Spike’s worried gaze confirmed it. She looked to Fred and lifted her eyebrows. 

“It'll work,” Fred whispered to her fiercely. “It might just take a while, because there's so little blood and he's so… weak.”

She nodded, and kept watching Spike’s back anxiously. 

Ten minutes later, Angel raised a hand from the ground quickly and looked at it hard before holding it up for them eagerly; it was smeared with muddy red. He tried to wipe it against his face, but nothing transferred. 

“Put it back!” Fred hissed at him, and he slapped it back down quickly. 

Spike’s eyes shifted suddenly, and she whirled around, scanning the direction he was looking in. From the far side of the park, some kind of bipedal demon was sprinting towards them, lumpy armoured (skin?) flashing coppery in the dark as it snorted and growled. As she lifted the scythe and stepped forward, she spotted a second one, then a third, all moving much too fast for her taste.

“Grishbarn,” shouted Angel. “They eat sorcerers.” He made to stand, then snarled in frustration and sunk back down. 

“From our lawyer friends?” she shouted.

“No. But hunt in packs. You should run.”

She smirked. “Cover Wes,” she called over to Spike, then ran forwards to meet the first one. “I have just been  _ dying  _ for a decent fight,” she told it as the scythe cleaved its head from its body. “But I think you guys are going to disappoint.”

“Don't bloody jinx us,” Spike called, though he sounded amused.

Then, everything went to hell. After seeing the first contender put down so swiftly the demons avoided her and her weapon, haring out to come at them from the far side of the circle and moving in against her back as soon as she turned (and where the hell had they all come from?). Spike had his own turn at decapitation when one tried to make a snatch for Wes, but the next one kicked out at him with what must have been some kind of spur on its foot and managed to slice bloodily into his axe-wielding hand. He dropped the axe to catch again in his other hand and took the thing's leg off with it, but her next split-second glance showed he was holding the left one in against himself protectively. 

“ _ Fingers?”  _ she yelped at him;  _ I love those, goddammit.  _

He flicked his hand up in a quick wave, blood flinging from it, and shouted to her between their next hits, “Accounted for. Know you like them.”

Was he doing that thing with his tongue again? She couldn't spare her eyes to check, but she was sure she could hear it coming in his voice. She took the hand off the next demon to put one within range, then staked it with the back end of the scythe as it stumbled. Fred had put her back to Wesley’s and started firing off shots from a small handgun, each one measured and precise as it smacked into a target. It clicked empty, so she shoved it under her bra strap and reached around Wes, pulling his sawn-off shotgun from his jacket and taking aim again. Andrew’s drum was thumping steadily still, and he'd pressed himself down in a ball on the ground around it and as much out of notice as possible. Gunn was wrestling with a demon on his own patch of ground, and as she checked him, he flicked a stake from his pocket and plunged it unerringly for the thing's heart. She liked his style.

Angel was vamped out in frustration but still held in place, pressing his stomach into the ground to try and spread the contact. Another demon count showed her six charging Wes, and she didn’t dare look too far out to see how many of these bastards were still arriving to join the party. After the next blast of the shotgun, she yelled out, “Fred! More blood, faster, correct?” 

“Yes!” Fred shouted back as she reloaded.

She elbowed another grishbarn in the face and heard its neck crunch, then spun to Spike, but he was already on it, stepping into the circle and shoving his dripping hand at Angel. She gave him a quick nod and turned to the next opponent. Four hasty grishbarns later, the drumbeat cut out as Angel let out a roar like a circus lion and leapt from the circle a few steps behind Spike, who pinched her bum in passing with a cheeky grin. 

Two minutes later the last few demons had fled, and she bent to wipe a splash of muck-that-she-didn’t-want-to-call-blood off her forehead and onto her shirt. A quick cast around showed everyone on their feet except Andrew, who had stopped his drumming but stayed pressed down to the ground. “Andrew?” she asked anxiously, hoping she hadn't missed something.

He stood up, looking embarrassed. “I wasn't sure- didn't want to get in your way.”

“You did good,” she told him, with a relieved smile. Spike tugged at her belt and tried to pull her against him, but she grabbed hold of his other arm and held his hand up between them, wincing to the pit of her stomach at the flapping edge of a slice across the back of his palm and a flash of one metacarpal showing through. 

“S’just skin,” he said, leaning around to nuzzle at her ear. “You’re all sweaty,” he purred into it, and her stomach did the much more pleasing kind of skip-flip.

She shouldered him away gently. “First, we leave this city. Can you say worst vacation destination? Then, I shower.  _ Then  _ you can be all distracting purr-boy and make with the happying. And somewhere in there, we’d better put your skin back over your bones.”

He pouted out his bottom lip slightly, and she almost changed her mind in order to drag him into the nearest bushes. “I'll pout back,” she warned, then started issuing instructions to the others before he could call her on her threat coming out more like  _ please take me.  _ He let it slide, moving off to the left of their group as she shifted right and they all hurried to the car.

She put Angel in the passenger seat, and Spike handed the keys off to Wesley. Before she could start thinking about how to fit everyone else in, Gunn made good on his jest and slapped the trunk cheerily for someone to open it. Wesley popped the lever and he all but dove in before they could change their minds, then handed her out the first aid kit from inside. With Fred in the middle and her legs across Andrew’s lap, there was space for Buffy to squeeze into the footwell. Bodies were so damn awkward with all of the needing of their own physical space.

She patched up Spike's hand with a few strips of meditape and a bandage, then wormed her way up onto his lap and watched out of the rear window as the city lights faded away. 

At San Diego airport they all leapt out and reclaimed their respective comfortable distances, then waited tensely in hard plastic chairs for the flight that would take them out of California. Gunn and Fred seemed to be edging around to an (understanding?) in a hushed conversation, so she stood and moved off to give them more privacy. Spike followed, and they drifted over to a coffee stand on the far side of the area. 

He glanced back at Angel, sitting opposite Wesley in a carefully non-threatening pose. “What are we going to do with him?” he murmured almost silently. 

“I don't know,” she grumbled back, just as quiet. “It was your idea.”

“Didn't think this far ahead, did I? That's your job.”

She scrunched up her nose at him and turned away to order her drink. “What if we sent him home with Andrew?” she said, turning back. “I'm serious. No one wants him here, and Andrew could probably use a silent beefy bodyguard when he hasn't got the girls behind him. Plus, he'd watch him faithfully for us.”

Spike considered, looking dubious but eager. “Okay. You put it to Andrew, I'll talk to him.”

  
  


She snagged Andrew on the flight when Angel went to try and clean up the rest of the blood from his skin in the toilet. “How would you feel about having your own personal bodyguard?” He frowned, so she continued quickly in an underhand whisper, “Truth is, we need someone we can really trust, to take him under their wing and encourage him to The Lightside. Someone who can watch him really closely without letting on. And… make sure he's not left alone with any of the girls.”

Andrew’s frown turned into his Serious Watcher Face. “I'd need to discuss it with my team,” he said, but she could see the idea swelling up inside of him. 

“Knew we could count on you,” she said. 

  
  


** x **

 

“What's the request?” Angel said morosely when he returned to find Spike in the seat next to his. He still appeared somewhat dumbfounded by the night's events, only now he'd added a truckload of abashment as he watched the others chattering with Gunn up front. 

Spike stifled a grin; in fact, Angel was looking thoroughly dispirited. He threw him the bone. “Andrew’s willing to take you on, if you think you can hack it. Bodyguarding and such.”

Angel looked surprised, and sat up a little. “Yeah. Yeah, I could do that.”

“Sorted then.” Spike swung his feet up onto the headrest of the unoccupied seat in front. “Sorry. You know, for staking you.”

“No you're not,” Angel said, frowning again. 

“Course not. But… I wouldn't have chosen to end it like that.”

Angel sighed. “I know, that's why I haven't returned the favour. Well, that, and…” He looked up to where Buffy sat chatting with Andrew. 

“As if you could,” Spike said, but it was a distracted murmur as he watched Buffy grimacing adorably at something rapidly drying into her hair. 

“You shouldn't have won that fight,” Angel said. “But… you have.”

“Yeah,” Spike grinned, and went to join her.

  
  


** + **

 

Back at the baby hellmouth with its baby slayers, Gunn drew up his first Slayer’s Council contract, free from fine print and mystical bindings. Angel was now officially Andrew’s assistant, and although she was certain the solution was only temporary, at least he'd keep them in the loop so they could intercede before it became necessary. And Angel did  _ appear  _ to be taking this chance seriously, a sombre earnestness to him as he watched the escapists of LA happily debriefing and looking forwards. 

She gave lost-puppy Angel a cool goodbye and Andrew a warm huggy one, thanking him several more times. Spike gave Andrew some kind of weird male fist-pump hand-thing that she didn't quite get but that made Andrew puff up with pride. Then Andrew hefted his briefcase, saluted her, and took Angel away.

  
  


** x **

 

There were options to consider, Giles said; would she sit down with him tomorrow and take a look at their plans, their international reports, his ideas? Spike saw the focus shift in her eyes, and she nodded. Staying another day then. 

He suggested they unpack the car, bring Mr blue pig inside, and she looked at him like he'd said something incomprehensible. 

She said, “We're leaving after…?”  _ Aren't we? _

After what, though? Faith had called, requesting a couple of the best girls for help with something; another something was happening in France. Apocalypse season was never far away. The real chosen one was Back, and there was much to do. But back was somewhere you could never truly go.

“Thoughts?” she asked him before she went to the watcher and his reports. 

“You know me.” Hopefully better than he did, because he was dammed if he knew what he thought they should do now.

Buffy belonged to the world again. 

  
  


She was sequestered in there all afternoon, but with no raised voices catching his ear, he catnapped until he heard her animated chatter start up in the downstairs hall. He didn't bother trying to distinguish her words through the walls and other sounds in the house - the cadence rolled over him to speak more eloquently. By the time she skipped in a moment later he was ready to go wherever it was that they were excited to be going.

She opened her mouth as she entered, and then grinned at him instead, glancing over the room for stray objects. “Wes wants a word. Chuck me the keys first.” She picked up the bag holding a couple of changes of clothes Fred had bought for her to wear, and held out her hand. 

Rephrase that; the world belonged to Buffy again. And he'd given it.

He placed the keys in her palm, then closed his fingers around it to pull her closer. “Where to?” he asked, feeling a dopey grin spread across his face at the sparkle in her eyes.

“Home, silly,” she said, with a swift eye roll. “I'll fill you in on the way.” 

  
  


Their rattly little car's battery was dead, so she had to get out and pushstart them. When the engine caught he let out a whoop and she laughed happily. “This thing needs a name,” she said as she jumped back in, patting the dashboard affectionately. 

Reminded, he dug out the envelope Wes had given him and passed it over to her. She pulled out their new ID cards and sat looking at her driver’s license in sudden quiet. “ _ Buffy Summers, _ ” she said eventually. “Thank you, Spike.” 

He patted her knee. “Put your seatbelt on, real girl.”

She clicked it on, still holding the license. “It says I can drive.”

“Could teach ya, if you like?”

“Yup. I'd like that.” 

“So, what're we signed on for?”

Louisiana, entire state. Start investigating possible local allies back in New Orleans. Collect a salary each - hence the other cards in the envelope - and get themselves a pc to keep in contact better. 

“That all?” he asked, surprised. 

“For now,” she shrugged. “Sound okay?” 

“Sounds perfect,” he said. 

“You sure? I mean, we can change it.” She smiled. “I didn’t  _ sign _ anything.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, Slayer. It's great.” They should get a better place to stay, really; somewhere with sunny windows for her and a spare room for if Dawn visited. A closet, so she could put the clothes in that she needed to buy. Bigger fridge, to hold more than blood. What else? She'd had so many things around before she lost it all, hairbrushes and posters and lamps and knick-knacks; all those bits and pieces he'd come to know while sneaking into her room to try and understand the obsession that had claimed him. Which ones did they need to purchase immediately? Christ, he didn't know how to do this. Never considered what was needed to build a future, a life, a tomorrow. “Think it’ll be okay?” he asked her suddenly. “It's going to be different, home.”

“It will be,” she said softly. “But that's okay. We'll adapt.” 

She rested her head against his shoulder, and the flash of panic faded away as if it never was. 

“Yeah. We will. We're good at that.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoyed? Please let me know :)  
> Comments fuel the writing 💙


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